


Overcast Horizons

by Ael



Series: Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations [5]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Alternate Universe - X-Men Fusion, Character-Driven Plot, Crew as Family, Gen, Not Beta Read, Star Trek Beyond, Survival, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:42:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 63
Words: 81,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8740861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ael/pseuds/Ael
Summary: Spending three years exploring deep space is starting to take its toll on the crew of the Enterprise. The discovery of a new planet should be routine, but this time, the consequences are greater than anyone was expecting.A rewrite of Star Trek Beyond, in the mutantverse.





	1. Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> When I was trying to outline the story to account for mutants, I realized that there are several plot points in Beyond that simply will not work in this context. With that in mind, I've created an alternate plot loosely based on characters and events from the movie. I hope you like it!

_Captain's Log, Stardate 2263.2. Today is our nine hundred sixty-sixth day in deep space, a little under three years into our five year mission. The more time we spend out here... the harder it can be to tell where one day ends and the next one begins. As Doctor McCoy is so fond of reminding me, space is full of unknown dangers, and it seems more often than not, we find them. When we aren't getting into trouble, the long stretch between stars blurs together. Crew morale is down twenty percent this month, but performance is exemplary as always. I know the personal sacrifices the crew has made to participate in this historic journey weighs heavier every day._

_My home, such as it is, is the_ Enterprise _, but even so, I can't help but think... the farther out we go, the harder it is not to wonder what it is we are trying to accomplish. If the universe is truly endless, then we are striving for something constantly out of reach. The journey will never come to an end, forever wandering the space between stars. At one time, I thought that was what I wanted. Now, I don't know anymore._

_The_ Enterprise _is scheduled for a reprovisioning stop at_ Yorktown _later today. It has been several months since our last chance for shore leave, so Mister Spock is drafting a schedule rotation to ensure that all members of the crew have a chance to relax and enjoy themselves off-ship. I too am looking forward to the chance to stretch my wings and take my mind off things._

 

Observation Deck 2 is nearly deserted at the early morning hour, save one man. Before him, the large window reveals the swirling blue warp trails rushing over the hull of the _Enterprise_ as she forges her trail through the black, and barely visible beyond are drifting pinpoints of light, countless unmapped stars spilling out into the universe.

 

Captain Kirk sits on the floor, legs crossed comfortably on the cool deck, elbows resting on his knees, propping up his chin on one fist as he gazes out into the depths of space. His wings rest half-open, shielding his face from anyone who wanders in, and he takes a moment to consider his reflection. Aside from the wings and a haircut that's long overdue for a trim, he's still grown up to be the spitting image of his late father.

 

"Two days," he mutters to himself. Just two more days until his birthday. Two days before the anniversary of his father's famous self-sacrifice. Even out in the space between stars, it's impossible to forget.

 

Behind him, the doors to the observation deck swish open. "Jim, you in here?" McCoy's voice calls. As if it wasn't obvious who was brooding in front of the glass.

 

Kirk sighs quietly, then raises his voice to answer, unmoving. "Yeah, Bones."

 

The sound of footsteps bring his friend closer, and McCoy lowers himself to the deck, muttering something about his knees and not being as young as he used to be. Kirk ignores it until he hears the distinct sound of glass clinking against the floor, and he turns to see the doctor setting down three glass tumblers and a very expensive-looking bottle of scotch. "What's the occasion?"

 

McCoy shoots him a side glance that clearly says he isn't buying Kirk's innocent act. "I raided Chekov's locker. Wanted to have something appropriate for your birthday."

 

It isn't the first time McCoy and Kirk have "celebrated" the captain's birthday like this. Back at the Academy, McCoy made it his duty to distract his friend from the remembrance ceremonies and clueless condolences by whatever means necessary. The tradition hasn't stopped since the _Enterprise_ left Earth.

 

Kirk smiles slightly, but his heart isn't really in it today, and he's sure McCoy can tell. But the doctor doesn't say a word about it, just pours three glasses, sliding one across the deck in front of the captain. "You gonna call your mom?" the doctor asks instead.

 

"Yeah, of course." Kirk picks up the glass and holds it up against the warplight. "I'll call her on the day."

 

"Good." McCoy holds out his glass, and the two friends tap their drinks against the third untouched glass, in honor of George. Another tap to each other's drinks, and then it's down the hatch.

 

Kirk wishes he could savor the flavor, but his thoughts are elsewhere, as he looks at the third glass. "I'm a year older," he says out loud, remembering just a few months ago, looking in the mirror and seeing his face etched with lines, hair turning gray, feathers falling out. It was disturbing, and in a way... so is seeing his young reflection now, catching a glimpse of the shadow of his father. "A year older than he ever got to be."

 

He doesn't have to turn his head to know that McCoy is frowning at him in concern, so he doesn't look up, rolling his empty glass between his palms. "He joined Starfleet because he believed in it," the captain says, not sure he's even ready to talk about the fallout from Gamma Hydra IV, but what other time is there? "I joined on a dare."

 

McCoy sets his empty glass down with a thud and shifts himself over a bit, so his knee is touching Kirk's. "You joined so you could live up to him. And you have. So stop worrying about trying to be George Kirk and just be Jim."

 

Trust McCoy to be the one to be able to put how he's feeling into words. Trouble is... Kirk doesn't have a clue where to start. But maybe it's the thought that counts. He looks over at his friend and smiles a little, and the doctor pours them both another drink. "To perfect health, and a full head of hair," McCoy says, offering a toast.

 

"Cheers," Kirk murmurs, tapping his glass against McCoy's. It's not a solution. But he does feel a little bit better, and maybe that's worth it.


	2. Yorktown

It has been nearly two years since the _Enterprise_ last visited _Yorktown_ , but the sight is no less impressive the second time around. A giant globe hanging in space, nearly sixty kilometers in diameter, interlocking habitable rings crossing each other like an enormous atomic model. It's astounding to realize that millions of people inhabit the station, out here in the middle of nowhere.

 

From his perch in the captain's chair, Kirk can see Sulu smiling in anticipation of seeing his family, and he can't help smiling himself. It's been a long time since most of the crew have been able to see their loved ones, save for the occasional chance to call home, and he certainly won't begrudge anyone the chance. It must be difficult for Ben sometimes, raising little Demora alone while his husband is out in deep space.

 

His gaze drops to the edge of Sulu's console, where a small photo of the helmsman's little girl is tucked into the seam. Regulations say that crew are not to personalize their workstations out of respect for others who must use the same one, but Kirk tossed that regulation out the window last year. There's no one out here who's going to stop him, and crew morale is better served by letting everyone remind themselves that they're more than just another cog in the Starfleet machine.

 

"Time until docking is complete?" Kirk asks as the _Enterprise_ approaches the massive space lane entry doors. A crack of light appears as the doors slowly begin to slide open, welcoming the starship into its maw.

 

"Seven minutes," Sulu says, checking his instrument panel. " _Yorktown_ tractor beam has locked onto us. From here on in, I am hands-free."

 

Kirk nods in satisfaction, leaning back a little in his chair. "Begin shutdown of all non-essential systems. Time to sit back and enjoy the ride." He flicks the comm switch on his armrest, opening the intercom shipwide. "This is the captain. We will be fully docked with _Yorktown_ in seven minutes. Shore leave parties may begin disembarking in ten, according to Mister Spock's schedule. Everyone enjoy yourselves. That's an order," he adds lightly.

 

"That including yourself, Jim?" McCoy's gruff voice asks from behind him.

 

Kirk doesn't swivel in his chair to face the doctor, but that doesn't stop the fond smile from touching his lips. "Sure thing, Bones. I have business on the base but if you think I'm _not_ going to fly there, you're dead wrong."

 

"Right. Of course. What was I thinking?" McCoy steps down into Kirk's line of sight, grimacing at the sight of the space lane swallowing the _Enterprise_ , engulfing them in a dark corridor that feels too small for his tastes. He reaches up a hand to nervously scratch at his gills. "This place is ridiculous. Like a gigantic snowglobe waiting to break."

 

"That's the spirit," Kirk says, refusing to let the doctor's grumbling bring down his mood. It's so expected at this point, it's actually somewhat of a comfort. If Doctor McCoy doesn't have something to gripe about, the situation is way more serious than it appears.

 

"The safety features of _Yorktown_ are state of the art," Spock remarks from Kirk's other side, hands clasped behind his back, standing straight with perfect posture as always. "The chances of a catastrophic failure are quite low."

 

"What, you're not going to cite the exact odds?" McCoy snarks back, jumping into his role with his usual enthusiasm. Kirk figured out a long time ago that much of their bickering is for his amusement as much as theirs, and there hasn't been genuine irritation between the two officers for years. When you're out in space, looking at the same people for months and months on end, you have to get your entertainment somewhere.

 

Spock opens his mouth to reply, and Kirk waves a hand in the air to break up the 'fight.' "Gentlemen, please. There's a time and a place, and shore leave isn't it."

 

"Captain, we are not officially on shore leave for another six point four minutes," Spock objects, raising an eyebrow.

 

"Doesn't matter. It still counts." Kirk stands and rolls his shoulders, shifting his wings into a more comfortable position against his back. The anticipation of being able to take free flight is making his back itch, and he can't help bouncing on his heels a little. The _Enterprise_ is home, but she's certainly not spacious enough by herself for a captain with an eighteen-foot wingspan. "I expect both of you to take advantage of _Yorktown_ 's facilities as well," he adds, turning on one heel to face his friends and giving them his best stern, captainly look. "If I have to take time off, so do you. And don't give me any lip about being too busy with your duties," he cuts Spock off before the first officer can even begin. "You can spare one day to spend time with your girlfriend and eat real, non-replicated food off the ship."

 

Spock closes his mouth and nods, unable to refute the captain's statement. McCoy rolls his eyes, but nods too. "Yeah, I hear ya. Hope they've got a bigger pool than that fish pond we've got on board."

 

There's a burst of empathic excitement radiating from the navigator's station, and Chekov flashes them all an apologetic look. "I hear that _Yorktown_ has banyas, doctor," he says enthusiastically. "The steam is good for you. Maybe you can talk Mister Scott into installing one on board."

 

"Oh, I'm sure a sauna will top his priority list," McCoy drawls, deadpan. Chekov doesn't look offended though, just turning back to his station with a smile.

 

The _Enterprise_ begins to slow as she approaches her docking station, and enormous metal clamps reach out to grab hold of her hull as she stops, steadfastly anchoring her to _Yorktown_. The resonance echoes through the deck, a deep thunking noise beneath their boots, signaling completion of the docking sequence.

 

"We're here," Kirk announces, entirely unnecessarily. "Shut down all remaining systems we don't need, if you please. Anyone getting off with the first group can start heading to the docking umbilical. Spock, I know you're signed up with the second group, so you have the conn until I get back."

 

Spock nods. "Aye, sir. Enjoy your leave."

 

_If only._ Kirk keeps a smile on his face as he strides off the bridge. Crewmen nod to him as he passes, some of them preparing to take their own shore leave, others moving to their duty stations while they wait their turn. The crew may be tired, but they're still well disciplined, and it makes him glad to see it. It's no secret that several admirals thought promoting a cadet straight to captain would end in anarchy onboard the _Enterprise_ , and the crew has worked hard to dispel such doubts over the last few years.

 

Emerging from the docking umbilical into the wide open spaces of _Yorktown_ isn't quite like stepping out onto the surface of a planet, but it's close enough. He closes his eyes for a moment as an actual breeze ruffles his hair and feathers, circulating air around the station. Above him, he can see a handful of other flighted mutants taking advantage of the station's design, soaring from one ring to another without needing to use a transporter. It's a slower way of getting around, but no one understands more than Jim Kirk why they choose to do it.

 

There's nowhere to get a proper running start without disrupting the crowd, so he simply walks to the edge of the ring and hops off the edge, spreading his wings to catch the air. Immediately it feels as though a weight has dropped from his chest, and he quickly gains altitude relative to the docking ring, feeling the strange tug of sideways gravity as he veers a little too close to another ring. It's tempting to soar the entire circumference of the station, even knowing that he'd likely tire himself before making it halfway. But duty calls, and he reluctantly casts his gaze around until he spots the administration building near one of the center spires.

 

All too soon, he's gliding to a landing, touching down with the ease of a few years of practice. No one gives him a second glance as he folds up his wings and strides into the administration building's foyer. "I'm here to see Commodore Tsel-Paris," he tells the receptionist, and she directs him to the proper floor.

 

The commodore's office is well lit, spacious, and sparsely decorated. Kirk doesn't waste time gawking, his gaze instead finding the ranking officer of the station behind her desk. Paris is in her sixties, her features reflecting the population of Earth's Middle-Eastern regions, and something in her piercing gaze reminds him strongly of Admiral Pike. _Wonder if it's an empath thing,_ he thinks briefly, then shuts it out, putting the professional mask of Captain Kirk in place, and he salutes her. "Commodore."

 

"Captain," she says, her voice warm and gravelly. "Welcome back to _Yorktown_."

 

"Thank you," he says sincerely. "It's good to be back. All quiet out here, I hope?"

 

"Nothing more exciting than the usual problems of large cities," she says, her lips twitching in what might be a smile. "I'm sure your mission is far more involved with that sort of activity. Which brings me to the reason I asked you to report to me."

 

He knows damn well she's able to read him like a book, so he only makes a token effort to hide his discomfort. "Commodore, I..."

 

Paris regards him with kind, dark eyes. "There's no need to feel ashamed, captain. The stresses of commanding a starship are intense, to say the least. It's more common than you think, for a captain to want to leave."

 

"I don't know if I _do_ want to leave," he protests, but it's a weak argument and he knows it. "I'm just... cultivating multiple options," he adds, borrowing a turn of phrase from Spock.

 

"I see," she says, in a tone that implies she isn't fooled for a moment. "You aren't the only candidate for the position of vice admiral of this facility, but you are near the top of the list. A man with your reputation could get any posting he desired, most likely. _Yorktown_ has several benefits over the _Enterprise_. If I'm not mistaken, you've already taken advantage of the most obvious one, Captain Tsel-Kirk."

 

"I won't deny that it's nice to get a chance to really stretch my wings," he admits, resisting the urge to reposition his wings, self-conscious.

 

She smiles slightly. "It's all right to take time to consider. We have not yet finished reviewing all the candidates either; that will take several days. In the meantime, there is a nearby nebula that remains uncharted which is becoming a potential navigation hazard. If it would be agreeable with you, I'd like to send the _Enterprise_ to map the region. That should give us both enough time to come to our respective conclusions."

 

Her hands dance across the desk, calling up a hologram of the nebula. It's just an exterior view, an amorphous cloud positioned just over a lightyear away from _Yorktown_ , very close to the main shipping lane used to bring in supplies. Kirk leans a little closer to study it.

 

"That sounds reasonable to me, commodore."

 

She nods once. "Very well. Stop by my office when you return."

 

He knows a dismissal when he hears one, so he salutes her again, and pivots to walk out. Part of his mind is already occupied with the new side mission she's given him and his crew, but the main bulk of his thoughts are still on the potential promotion he could achieve.

 

Vice admiral. Youngest admiral in the fleet at age thirty. It'd be keeping with the trend, since he already made captain at twenty-five, the youngest ever then, too. It's a tempting prospect, and not because he feels he needs more fame than he has already. His wings are already eagerly twitching in preparation for the flight back, itching to get up in the air where he belongs. On _Yorktown_ , he could indulge himself whenever he wants, not force himself to be content with the occasional flight on an unknown planet.

 

But then he'd have to leave the _Enterprise_. And his crew.

 

He sighs as he reaches the lobby, striding out into the wide open spaces of _Yorktown_. It's not an easy decision, and he welcomes the distraction that the nebula mapping provides. It could very well just be his birthday blues weighing down on him yet again. But by the time they return, that should be done and over with, and he'll have a clear head.

 

In the meantime, Captain Kirk is on leave. And he plans to spend as much time in the air as possible. He sprints along the spire, grateful for the lack of a crowd in this sector, and takes to the false sky.


	3. Legacy

Rationally, Leonard McCoy knows that _Yorktown_ is perfectly safe. There are force field safeguards in place if any part of the gigantic bubble pops, and an external shell that can self-seal smaller breaches. Still, it gives him the heebie-jeebies to look up and see an infinite dome curving around him, and behind it, the blackness of the void. At least on board the _Enterprise_ , there are walls without windows, so he can _pretend_ he's not constantly one good hull breach away from boiling away all his bodily fluids into vacuum.

 

And as ridiculous as a swimming pool on a starship is, it's kind of crazy to see reflecting pools and other water features scattered here and there across the rings. He glares grumpily at one, miles above his head on one of the other rings. Water just shouldn't be stuck to the ceiling like that. It's not natural.

 

He sighs, turning his attention back to the "ground." None of the reflecting pools are very deep, only a few meters, but they're wider and longer than the _Enterprise_ 's swimming facilities. So that's good enough, he supposes.

 

He's not the only one indulging himself, either. Some species of water-breathing alien is splashing around at the far end of the pool, and a pair of mutants are skating across the surface together, leaving rapidly-melting trails of ice where their feet touch the surface of the water. McCoy harrumphs, and dives under the surface, sinking to the bottom. Underwater, it's easy to forget that certain death is looming above his head. Surrounded by water, he can't help but feel safe, ensconced in perfectly breathable fluid that doesn't have even the slightest hint of chemical sterilizers.

 

He sighs, letting some of the tension bleed out of him into the water. _Three years in space. God, it's forever. And there's still two more to go._

 

He moves along the bottom, keeping himself aligned with the metal struts so he doesn't have to look down through the transparency to see the inside of the space lane below. _What I wouldn't give for a real lake with a nice sandy bottom, not... this._ But it's better than nothing, and he turns on his back, floating beneath the surface as he gazes up at the light filtering down through the water. A wide streak of white forms above him as one of the ice skating mutants passes overhead, and he watches as the trail slowly melts back into the pool like it never existed.

 

Sometimes, he reflects, that's what space travel really feels like. You zip from one star to the next, leaving no trace you ever passed that way. And if something were to happen... how would anyone ever track you down? And with no sign that you were ever there... why does it matter?

 

McCoy had never thought about wanting to leave a mark on the galaxy, but the longer they stay out in the black, the more he wonders. Part of it is Kirk's fault, of course. Damn captain can't help making waves wherever he goes. First by destroying the _Narada_ , then by sacrificing himself to stop Admiral Marcus, and now as Starfleet's poster boy for intergalactic relations. For billions of sentients, Captain James T. Kirk's iconic face is the first to come to mind at the mention of Starfleet or the Federation.

 

But who ever pays attention to the folks who got him there?

 

He doesn't regret following his best friend out into the unknown. But lately, he can't find the real purpose in it. A goal to work toward, besides keeping the captain and crew upright and healthy.

 

He grimaces and gives himself a shake. _Enough with the pity party, Leonard. Jim does enough of that for both of us._

 

He swims for the shore, spitting out water as he breaks the surface so he can take a deep breath of air. The station's light is starting to dim as _Yorktown_ enters the night cycle, and as he towels off and slips on his dry civilian clothes, he contemplates finding a bar.

 

Instead, he pays a visit to the central communications hub and places a call.

 

It's afternoon by Georgia time, and it doesn't take long for the call to connect. McCoy can't stop the genuine smile as he sees his little girl grinning back at him. "Hey there, Joanna," he greets her. "Baby, you're getting big."

 

" _Daaad, I'm eleven,_ " she says, rolling her eyes dramatically. And boy doesn't he wonder who she got _that_ from. " _I'm practically all grown up._ "

 

"So you are," he agrees. "How've you been? Doing good in school, I hope."

 

" _Yeah, it's okay. It's school,_ " she says, as if that explains everything. It sort of does. She looks away from the viewscreen for a moment, biting her lip. " _Some of my classmates have powers now. David's learning how to move stuff with his thoughts, and Ashley has these cool retractable claws._ "

 

"That is pretty cool." He can tell something's bothering her, though. "Nothing for you yet?"

 

Joanna looks a little depressed by the question, and she slumps, propping up her chin on her hands. " _No. What if I don't?_ "

 

"Then I'll love you all the same." He's assured her of this before, and he'll do it as many times as he needs to for it to stick. "Whether you have powers or not doesn't mean a thing to me, baby girl. Some of my very best friends are Carriers, and they're the best in the 'fleet. You study hard, and you can be anything you want to be, powers or not. You'll make me proud, no matter what."

 

" _Thanks, Dad._ " Ah, to be that young and easily assured again. Joanna smiles a little, and blows him a kiss. " _I miss you._ "

 

"Miss you too, baby." McCoy kisses his palm and presses it to the viewscreen, wishing he could hug her in person. "Two more years and we'll be back. I promise I'll take you out for ice cream if you get all good grades between now and then. Deal?"

 

Her eyes light up. " _Deal. I'm gonna hold you to that._ "

 

"I know you will. Love you."

 

" _Love you more. Be safe._ "

 

He stays seated for a few moments, gazing at the blank screen. Being able to call home can never come soon enough, and it's always over far sooner than he'd like. But just getting to talk to his little girl once in a while is a precious treasure.

 

_Sulu's lucky that his family's stationed here._ Part of him is jealous that the helmsman gets to visit his husband and daughter in person, but God knows he isn't going to begrudge him the chance. Everyone on board the _Enterprise_ deserves to be happy every now and again. Even himself.

 

Hell with it. Might as well. He shrugs and flips open his communicator. "McCoy to Chekov. Where's that sauna you promised me?"


	4. Notification

Despite all his protests to the contrary, Commander Spock does indeed appreciate the chance for shore leave. Finding the inner peace necessary for successful meditation can be difficult on a starship, constantly surrounded by hundreds of familiar presences. The existence of empaths in Starfleet does require all crewmen to learn basic shielding techniques, of course, but human discipline is often lacking by Vulcan standards. And trapped in the confines of the _Enterprise_ , there is always someone else nearby, in any direction. He welcomes the opportunity to find his center without such a dense collection of distracting thoughts around him.

 

And, of course, he is sure that Nyota will appreciate the opportunity to spend non-duty hours with him in a new, unfamiliar location.

 

Spock remains on the bridge for the majority of their first day docked at _Yorktown_ , overseeing the resupply and approving necessary repairs and maintenance. It is relaxing work, though not as intellectually stimulating as his science duties. As always, he is grateful that command is not his primary role aboard the ship. He is quite adequate as first officer without needing to maintain the extreme level of energy and tactical awareness that the captain exudes so effortlessly.

 

Speaking of the captain, Kirk arrives back onboard after ten hours ashore - far too brief for a proper leave, in Spock's opinion, but the captain has always had a habit of prioritizing the ship and her crew over himself. Despite the brief interval, he appears in good health. There is a weary darkness still clinging to his psyche, but much of the tension that has collected itself in his posture has bled away, and his windswept hair vouches for the reason why.

 

"Captain," Spock greets him, standing to relinquish the command chair. "I trust you enjoyed your extended flight."

 

Kirk smiles at him warmly. "I did, thanks. How are things going up here?" he asks as he slides into his chair, with the grace of long practice.

 

"Operations are proceeding on schedule," Spock reports, producing the relevant padd and handing it to his captain. "All provisions are onboard and distribution will be complete in one point three five hours. Maintenance is scheduled until sixteen hundred hours tomorrow."

 

Kirk reviews the information quickly, nodding in satisfaction. "Good. We have a mission once we're done here. Commodore Paris wants us to map that nebula we passed on the way in."

 

Spock raises an eyebrow. "A prudent measure. Shall I begin the necessary preparations?"

 

Kirk gives him a side glance that Spock has come to learn means that the captain believes he is attempting to be evasive. "I can handle it. You're on leave, Spock. Go take Uhura out to dinner or something. Don't make me make it an order."

 

"Yes, captain." The years gone by have necessitated that Spock learn how to pick his battles, and he can tell from the captain's demeanor that this is not something worth pressing the issue. Besides, Kirk's human sense of pride might suffer damage if he insists, as if that were to imply that his own skills are incapable of fulfilling the task.

 

No matter. He is aware that Nyota has been looking forward to this scheduled stop for weeks. Sharing a meal together is an acceptable and appropriate use of their free time.

 

The _Enterprise_ feels a little strange with so few people aboard. Stripped down to a skeleton crew, the hallways are remarkably empty as Spock travels down to his quarters. He comms Uhura once he arrives, stripping off his shipboard duty uniform in favor of his meditation robes.

 

" _Hey,_ " she answers, her smile clearly audible in her voice. " _I thought you weren't going to get off duty for another hour._ "

 

"The captain has returned from his leave ahead of schedule," Spock replies, lighting the flame of his _asenoi_ to serve as his focus. "I intend to meditate for thirty minutes. After that time, will you join me for the evening meal aboard the station?"

 

" _Absolutely. Want me to find a restaurant for us?_ "

 

"That would be logical," he replies, allowing a small measure of approval to be heard over the comm. "I trust in your judgment, Nyota."

 

" _Then it's a date. See you in a bit._ "

 

Communication complete, Spock kneels on the meditation pad before the flame and focuses on his breathing, reaching for the still, calm center of his being. Without the oppressive weight of so many human minds on board, he easily slips into a state of rest that he has not felt for many months. Thoughts flow into his mind and pass through, unacknowledged, emptying himself of nothing more than the flame and the steady, mechanical pace of his own breathing.

 

All too soon, thirty minutes have passed, and he reluctantly pulls his consciousness to the present. Though his meditation was brief, nonetheless he feels far more centered and refreshed than he had previously. He extinguishes the flame and rises to his feet, progressing to his wardrobe to exchange his robes for the slightly less formal black uniform he wore as an instructor at Starfleet Academy.

 

A message waits on his personal padd, coordinates to a vegetarian restaurant on _Yorktown_ , and a brief note of _See you there! -Nyota_

 

On his way to rendezvous with her, however, his path is briefly blocked by two Vulcans. A rare enough sight, after the destruction of their homeworld, but their subtle expressions make Spock stop in his tracks. They are looking for him, and they bear unfortunate news. But what news could they be delivering that would be so grave? His father, perhaps? Sarek has already suffered through one cardiac infarction since Amanda was lost, but the last Spock knew, his father was recovering well.

 

"Commander Spock," one of the Vulcans says, confirming their interest. "I am Solkun. My colleague is Vedak. May we have a moment of your time?"

 

"Of course," he agrees. He will be late for his engagement with Uhura, but she has always been a very understanding human.

 

The docking ring of _Yorktown_ is too crowded, even at this late hour, so the three Vulcans retire to an observation platform that overlooks the exterior of the station. Unlike humans, who would feel the need to soften an emotional blow by "easing into it," Solkun gets straight to the point. "Ambassador Spock has died."

 

Spock feels a momentary flicker of relief that it is not bad news about his father, followed quickly by guilt at that relief, and a deep sense of loss. He has not been close with his future counterpart, but it has always been easy to look at the ambassador and see _himself_ , what he may become in the future. A wise old man, tempered by over a century of experience and conflict, far more at ease with his human and Vulcan halves than Spock himself has achieved thus far. And though he has not ever thought about it explicitly, he realizes that he has come to see the ambassador as a sort of role model. Not to become him, but to take what the ambassador has learned and adapt it for himself, refining himself further.

 

The memory is still fresh in his mind of only four point three months ago, watching his reflection age from the radiation of Gamma Hydra IV, seeing the lines of Ambassador Spock etching themselves into the planes of his own face. To hear now that the ambassador has succumbed to the ravages of time... it is indeed a shock.

 

He finds his voice, gratified that there is no hint of emotion to embarrass him in front of his kinsmen. "I was not aware. When did this occur?"

 

"Three solar days ago," Vedak replies. "We grieve with thee, commander."

 

"Thank you." Spock inclines his head slightly, accepting the traditional phrase for what it has truly become. After the destruction of their homeworld, every Vulcan life is precious, no matter what individual it is. The loss of even one Vulcan is a loss for the species as a whole. Where once it was mere ritual, now all of Vulcan truly grieve as one.

 

Solkun reaches under his robes and retrieves a small metal case, presenting it to Spock. Inscribed on the lid is the Starfleet insignia, and the words PROPERTY OF AMBASSADOR SPOCK. "As you are his closest living relative, his property now passes to you."

 

It is not the first time Spock has seen such cases. But this is the only one he has ever received. He takes the case in hand, wondering what few belongings the ambassador would find worthy of keeping, whether there may be any last insights to learn from his counterpart. And yet he is strangely reluctant to look, to surrender to the finality of the act, leaving no more metaphorical doors unopened. Instead he merely raises his hand in the _ta'al_. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention," he says, as emotionless as is expected of him. "Live long and prosper."

 

"Peace and long life," Vedak answers, both elder Vulcans returning the salute. Their task complete, they depart, leaving Spock the only living thing on the platform, looking out into the darkness.

 

He is fortunate, he considers, that he was able to successfully meditate before boarding _Yorktown_. Were he to try now, he would surely fail.

 

Spock takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. _Kadiith_. There is nothing that can be done.

 

He takes a moment to detour back to his quarters, placing the metal case on his desk. The contents will wait until a more appropriate time to review them. If he does not proceed to the restaurant, Nyota will become concerned. And he is not prepared to discuss this unfortunate news at this time.

 

Spock leaves the _Enterprise_ once more, attempting not to think about his own mortality. He does not succeed.


	5. Nebula

" _I'm sorry, sir,_ " the communications officer on the USS _Columbia_ says apologetically. " _Lieutenant Commander Tsel-Kirk is unavailable at this time. Would you like me to have her contact you once she returns from her mission?_ "

 

Captain Kirk wishes he was surprised. It isn't the first time his mother's been unable to take his yearly birthday call, and he can't exactly blame her for it, either. Starfleet doesn't always give you the luxury of being available for personal communication any time of the day. He deliberately doesn't ponder the possibility that she's avoiding him again, preferring to give her the benefit of the doubt.

 

"No," he says at last. "The _Enterprise_ is going to be out of contact for at least the next standard week. But please, tell her I called and that I hope she's doing well."

 

" _Yes, captain. I'll pass that along. Good luck on your own mission, sir._ "

 

"Thanks, lieutenant." He cuts the connection and sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. What a shitty start to his least favorite day of the year. At least there's nothing more exciting planned for the day than mapping out gas clouds. Whoopee.

 

He checks his reflection in the mirror, manipulating his hair to a more presentable state. His wings are starting to look a bit ragged, and he realizes with a start that he doesn't remember the last time he had the chance to properly care for his feathers. It's such a time-consuming task, his schedule usually doesn't allow for it. Kirk makes a mental note to check _Yorktown_ 's directory for a preening salon when the _Enterprise_ gets back, then puts that thought on the back burner. He can't do anything about it right now, after all.

 

He tugs his shirt to straighten it, grabs a cup of coffee, and heads for the bridge.

 

The other officers on alpha shift are just arriving, nodding in greeting to one another, and there's a reflexive "Captain on ze bridge!" from Chekov at his arrival. No one mentions the date - they all learned in their first year together that the captain's birthday is to be treated like a non-event. Smart crew, and Kirk loves them all the more for it.

 

Kirk glances at the bridge chronometer, satisfied to see it ticking over to 0800 on the dot as he takes his post in the captain's chair. "Report. We ready to go?"

 

"All decks report ready," Spock answers immediately.

 

"Fantastic." Kirk swivels his chair a little to look at Uhura, who doesn't need to hear the command to open a channel to _Yorktown_ 's docking control.

 

" _Yorktown_ dockmaster, this is _Enterprise_ , ready to launch," she broadcasts.

 

" _Acknowledged,_ Enterprise _. Tractor beam activated._ "

 

"Release all moorings, Mister Sulu," Kirk orders, and the clunking sound of the docking clamps releasing resonates through the hull. The ship begins to reverse, retracing her path through the space lane. It's always a little nerve-wracking, not being able to see where the ship is going and lacking any control over the situation whatsoever, but his crew is too well-trained to show it, even Chekov.

 

The great silver saucer of the _Enterprise_ finally clears the space doors, and Sulu swings the ship wide, angling toward the nebula. "Thanks for the pit stop, _Yorktown_ ," Kirk says over the open channel. "See you next week."

 

" _Our pleasure, captain. Safe journey._ "

 

Kirk takes a sip of his coffee, just watching his bridge officers work for a moment. They've become a well-oiled machine these past few years, anticipating each other's needs and reacting accordingly. A pessimistic corner of his mind notes that in light of that, a captain isn't strictly necessary, is he? He shoves that thought down, locking it away where it belongs.

 

"All right, people," he says. "We're going to lose long-range sensors and communications once we hit the nebula, and probably most of our short-range sensors too, so record as much as you can on the way in. We're going to have to map it out the old-fashioned way, with math and everything."

 

"God forbid," Sulu says dryly.

 

_If I take that promotion I'm gonna miss this sassy crew._ "Eyes forward, Mister Sulu," Kirk orders, though not without a faint smile of his own. "We wouldn't want to bump into anything on the way there."

 

"Aye sir, shutting up."

 

The _Enterprise_ glides gracefully into the gas cloud of the nebula, most of her sensors becoming garbled from the ionized particles around her. And while the tactical display suffers also, the vista out the main viewport is a stunning one. Red and purple swirl together, painting magnificent strokes across the cosmos, and pinpricks of light shine through the complex patterns of color. It's like drifting at sea, watching the aurora curl overhead and reflect off the endless waves.

 

"Well, would you look at that," McCoy says from Kirk's elbow, sounding impressed despite himself. "Terrifying but beautiful. Kinda like the ex-wife."

 

Kirk turns slightly to regard his friend. "Everything set down in Medical?"

 

"Yeah, although I'd much rather you didn't end up needing our services," the doctor replies, throwing him a significant look. "Figured since we had things in hand, I'd come up and see what all the fuss is about."

 

_And to get a good sense of my mood, Bones?_ Kirk doesn't say that part aloud, but he knows damn well the doctor worries about him getting caught in his own thoughts on this particular day of the year. "It should be routine," he says instead.

 

"Yeah, that's what worries me," McCoy mutters. "'Routine' on this ship means all kinds of bizarre nonsense."

 

Well, he certainly can't argue with that. "Don't tempt me to jinx it by saying something stupid like 'what could possibly go wrong?' I'll let you know if anything comes up."

 

McCoy claps a hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Yeah, I bet you will. Have fun up here."

 

It's not fun, exactly. Three hours pass, but no alien ships pop up to ambush them, no giant green hands reach out to grab the ship, and no enormous space monsters lunge out of the cloud to snap them up. Which makes it positively unremarkable by _Enterprise_ standards, but it's a welcome relief for many of the weary crew, allowing them to simply focus on their work.

 

And meanwhile, the captain has very little to do but think, much to his annoyance.

 

His mug grows cold on his armrest, coffee forgotten, as he gazes out the viewscreen. The vista really is spectacular, but he hardly sees it as he retreats into his thoughts.

 

He never wanted to be famous. But being known throughout the Federation as the _Kelvin_ baby made that an impossibility since the day of his birth. And it's not like he hates his accomplishments since then, because they're _his_ , something he did with his own skills, not riding on the coattails of his father's famous sacrifice.

 

But sometimes, he has to admit to himself... it'd be nice if he could just _be_. To live a little bit of the quiet life, away from the media, away from the stress of never knowing what new danger is going to throw itself his way.

 

Kirk wants to laugh at himself. Is this what a midlife crisis is like? You turn thirty, and suddenly your personality does a one-eighty? It's a far cry from what young juvenile delinquent Jim Kirk ever wanted for himself.

 

"Captain? I'm picking up something," Uhura's voice interrupts his thoughts, and he turns in his chair to frown at her. She looks a bit puzzled. "It's very faint, but it's definitely a deliberately broadcasted signal."

 

"A signal? Out here?" His brooding forgotten, Kirk stands, tucking in his wings to avoid knocking anything over, and moves to look over her shoulder. "Can you tell what it is?"

 

She shakes her head. "Not with all this interference. I might be able to get a heading. Chekov, come here and give me a hand."

 

The young navigator eagerly leaps from his seat, coming to her aid. The two of them discuss the problem in low voices, and mere minutes later, Chekov returns to his station and inputs a few figures. "This course vill take us close to the signal, keptin."

 

Kirk nods in approval, and returns to the command chair, leaning forward as if that will help him see out the front viewport better. "Good work. Make it happen, Sulu."

 

"Aye, sir. Going to full impulse," Sulu answers at once, pushing the sublight engines to max.

 

Uhura stays practically glued to her station, one hand pressing her earpiece to her head, listening intently to the faint pings of the signal. "Sir, it... sounds like an old style distress signal. One of the old automated types. It's weak, probably from lack of power, so we must be close."

 

"There is a star ahead, K-class," Spock reports, cross-checking their course against what little he can read from the sensors. "There are two Class-J gas giants in orbit around it, multiple small planetoids, and one Class-M world. I believe the signal we are tracking emits from the latter."

 

"Can you put it on screen?" Kirk asks, gazing out the front viewport as though he can summon the image by the sheer force of will.

 

"The interference is too great to allow a clear image at this distance," Spock says, a faint hint of apology in his voice.

 

Kirk nods, disappointed, but he'd expected to hear something like that. "Then I guess we'll have to get closer. Uhura, see if you can get anything on hailing frequencies. Maybe someone's still alive out there."

 

The view shifts as Sulu turns the _Enterprise_ toward the planet in question. This far out, there's nothing visible, but that doesn't stop Kirk from watching closely. Several minutes pass before the tactical display finally lights up, in close enough proximity to be functional despite the ionized gases of the nebula, and the computer outlines a small sphere on the viewscreen, easily missed against the red-purple background. "Magnify," Kirk commands, and the image springs forth before them, a cloud-wrapped terrestrial world much like his own homeworld. Green forests, shimmering blue oceans, brown areas that might indicate mountains or desert.

 

Something catches his eye, and a strange glittering cloud appears to rise up from the planet, streaming into orbit. Their path arcs around the planet, and then as one, the swarm begins heading toward the _Enterprise_. Kirk stands, wings half-opening on reflex as a chill goes down his spine. "What is _that_?"

 

"Scanning," Spock says, gaze locked on his station. "It appears to be some kind of organic crystalline craft, captain. I detect no lifeforms within."

 

"Some kind of automated defenses?" Chekov theorizes, and though his control is usually impeccable these days, a hint of fear leeches out of him onto the bridge.

 

"Or a welcome wagon," Sulu says, though he doesn't sound optimistic about that.

 

"Shields up. Yellow alert," Kirk orders. "Do _not_ power up phasers unless I say so. If they are friendly, I don't want to ruin our chance for a good first impression."

 

The planet draws closer, and so does the swarm. The tactical display can't keep up with the shifting mass of ships, estimating thousands of them approaching the ship. It reminds Kirk of a flock of starlings, flowing almost like a fluid through the air, and the swarm slows as they near the _Enterprise_. "Anything, Uhura?" Kirk asks.

 

She shakes her head. "No response, sir. I'm not detecting any audio transmissions of any kind between the ships either. There is some kind of... energy field surrounding the ships that might be communication, but nothing I can decipher."

 

Kirk frowns. "Ideas?" he asks the bridge at large.

 

Spock turns, looking contemplative. "Captain, if the ships are piloted by some means, and the energy field is indeed a method of communication, perhaps our own energy emissions are what drew their attention to us."

 

"We could pulse our shields," Sulu suggests. "Use the classic prime number pattern. If there's an intelligence behind the swarm, it could be enough to find common ground."

 

The captain nods, forcing himself to sit down again. His wings refuse to settle, flared over the low backrest of the command chair, his gut telling him that something is amiss. "Do it. Just don't drop the shields at any point, not until we have real contact."

 

"Aye, sir." The shields are invisible to the naked eye, but looking over Chekov's shoulder, Kirk can see the energy level of the shields fluctuating. Two pulses, then three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty-three. Then the pattern repeats.

 

On the tactical display, the shimmering swarm has come to a relative stop, fluctuating between the _Enterprise_ and the planet. "They've matched our velocity and heading, captain," Sulu reports, glancing down at his own display. The ship is still moving toward the planet, at half-impulse, and the world grows large on the viewscreen, nearly close enough to enter orbit.

 

"The energy field is changing," Spock reports suddenly. "A single surge rather than a mathematical-"

 

"Keptin!" Chekov shouts, a burst of fear echoing across the bridge.

 

On the viewscreen, the swarm lunges forward, a cloud of crystal daggers sweeping out to strike at the _Enterprise_.

 

Kirk leaps to his feet. "Red Alert!"


	6. Evacuate

The _Enterprise_ shudders from multiple impacts as the bridge floods with crimson light, the Red Alert klaxon blaring shipwide. Kirk grabs onto his chair to keep from losing his footing, extending his wings on reflex for balance. "Charge phasers and return fire!" he shouts, barely noticing that his stone-cold cup of coffee has fallen and smashed on the floor.

 

"Aye, keptin!" It takes several seconds for the phasers to fully charge, but once they are ready, Chekov uses them well, firing into the crystal swarm. "Phasers have minimal effect, sir! Zey are coming around for another pass!"

 

"Evasive maneuvers," Kirk barks out to Sulu, who is already throwing the _Enterprise_ into an aileron roll. "What the hell are they hitting us with?"

 

"Kinetic energy, captain," Spock reports, gripping his own console tightly for balance as the ship shudders again. "They are simply impacting the _Enterprise_ at high velocity and allowing the laws of physics to dictate the rest. Our shields are ineffective against this type of attack."

 

Kirk clenches his fists, mind racing. He doesn't have a clue why the ship is being attacked, and there doesn't seem to be an easy, diplomatic way out. His top priority now is the safety of his crew. "Program photon torpedoes for wide spread and fire at will!"

 

Bright points of light lance out from the _Enterprise_ 's torpedo bays, and the missiles detonate in the midst of the swarm, shattering a few of the crystalline vessels. But more rush to fill their place in the volatile cloud as if they were never there in the first place, an endless wave of assailants. Chekov continues to fire, destroying as many of the attackers as he can. It's not enough.

 

"Scotty, damage report!"

 

" _Multiple_ _hull breaches, captain. We're venting atmosphere-_ "

 

An eerie shriek resonates through the ship's hull, interrupting the litany before it can truly begin, and Kirk whips his head toward Spock's station. "What was that?"

 

There is actual shock in the Vulcan's eyes as he meets the captain's gaze. "The alien vessels have severed the starboard warp nacelle."

 

Kirk's heart squeezes in his chest. The _Enterprise_ can still warp on only one nacelle, albeit a hell of a lot slower, but the situation has just gone from serious to critical. They cannot afford to take any more damage. "Sulu, get us out of here, maximum warp."

 

An even louder shriek shakes the deck so hard that Kirk can feel it grinding under his boots. "Scotty?"

 

" _Oh my God, sir. The port nacelle's been destroyed. I cannae fix this, captain!_ " the engineer reports, stricken, and Chekov doesn't bother reining in the fear that he's broadcasting to the entire bridge at the news.

 

In the span of only minutes, the _Enterprise_ has been crippled, and Kirk's heart cries out in pain for her. Her wings severed, cast adrift, a death sentence looming over her. It's far too familiar, and he wants nothing more than to wake up and realize it was all a bad dream, reflecting his own fucked-up childhood and his fears for the uncertain future. But this is no dream.

 

"Full impulse then," he snaps, unwilling to accept that this is the end. He is James Tiberius Kirk, and he does _not_ believe in losing. The planet looms large out the front viewscreen, the view growing closer by the minute, still spinning as the _Enterprise_ rotates on her longitudinal axis. Silent explosions mark torpedo hits in the crystal cloud, but the attacking vessels never seem to thin out. The swarm sweeps by the main viewport, curving up and above the saucer before arcing down again.

 

The ship screams, and every light on the bridge goes dark, the only light source reflected from the planet before them. There's a thunk as the auxiliary power generators kick in, bringing minimal lighting with it. "What do we have left?" Kirk calls out, frustrated and a little scared that this might actually be _it_. _This can't be happening._ And wouldn't that be the height of irony, if his ship met the same fate as his father's, exactly thirty years later?

 

"Shields are down," Chekov reports quickly. "Phasers inoperative."

 

"I only have limited maneuvering thrusters," Sulu adds, his voice tight with adrenaline. "We're being pulled in by the planet's gravity. I don't have enough control to get us out of it."

 

At least the attacks have stopped, the swarm fluctuating in place as it seems to stand back and simply _watch_. There _has_ to be an intelligence behind this, but there is no time to consider who or why. Kirk grits his teeth, hits the shipwide intercom, and gives the one order he'd hoped never to give. "This is the captain. All hands, abandon ship. Repeat, all hands, _abandon ship_."

 

His bridge crew is staring at him, disbelief etched in all their faces. Not because of the order, but because it was ever _necessary_. "Get going," Kirk snaps at them, unable to waste time being polite when their lives are on the line. His chest aches like there's an enormous gaping hole where his heart used to be, his back screaming in remembered, sympathetic pain. And no matter what he does, he can't shake this feeling of repeating history, doomed to follow in George Kirk's footsteps.

 

He doesn't move, can't move, from his spot at the center of the bridge as he watches the planet looming closer and closer in the viewscreen. All around him, his crew are scrambling to the escape pods, all except for Spock. His first officer calls up a list of personnel remaining aboard, watching as it grows shorter and shorter. Puffs of condensed atmosphere erupt all over the ship as the pods launch, flinging themselves out into space, soon to be captured by the planet's gravity well also. It's going to be a nightmare to reunite the survivors. But at least they'll be alive.

 

There are still several dozen names remaining when Spock grabs Kirk by the shoulder. "Captain, we must evacuate at once. Further delay will endanger our own departure."

 

"There are still crew aboard," Kirk says stubbornly, wings bristling. The bridge is empty, save for the two of them. He'd never thought about going down with his ship, but in one awful moment, he understands why some captains have chosen that fate. What right does he have to turn tail and run when even a single crewman remains on board?

 

"You cannot help them," Spock insists, dragging him over to an escape pod with inescapable Vulcan strength. "There is no time to go to their aid. Your responsibility is to survive and lead those which remain. You are our _captain_."

 

Kirk's eyes snap to Spock's, and he can see a glimmer of the heartsick pain he feels reflected in the Vulcan's gaze, the weight of the logic he presents. The captain closes his eyes and nods. "You're right. But I can't do this without you. You're first. That's an order."

 

Spock is silent a moment, searching his face for any sign of deception. But he nods, and steps up into the escape pod. "Yes, captain."

 

The door slams shut, and Spock disappears, launched to safety away from the doomed ship.

 

Kirk turns back to the darkened, deserted bridge, just beginning to glow with the orange fires of re-entry surrounding the ship as it tumbles into the atmosphere. The _Enterprise_ 's heart has been ripped out, and so has his. He touches his command chair in farewell, and then turns to enter his own escape pod, folding his wings in as much as he dares.

 

He ejects into space, and suddenly there is no sound, save for his own breathing. It's a horrible mockery of orbital skydiving, rising above the ruined ship, and he involuntarily cries out at the sight of his beautiful ship, her nacelles reduced to mere stumps, gaping holes blasted through her hull, an enormous pit at the back of the saucer where the impulse engines used to be. A fiery corona surrounds her, stripping away outer hull plating as she plummets to her doom.

 

A halo of escape pods follow her down, scattered across thousands of kilometers, mere specks against the nebula's backdrop. And beyond them, the glittering malevolence of the attacking vessels hang back and observe in silence.


	7. Landing

For a long, horrible moment, Sickbay is dead silent. McCoy's mouth hangs open in horror as the memory of Kirk's voice echoes endlessly in his ears. " _This is the captain. All hands, abandon ship. Repeat, all hands, abandon ship._ "

 

The _Enterprise_ has been through hell on multiple occasions. She's limped into Spacedock more than once, had most of her systems rebuilt, even survived a catastrophic warp core imbalance. But never _once_ has the situation called for complete evacuation. But Kirk's voice was full of dread and agony of the soul, and he can't delude himself for one moment to believe that it's some kind of drill. Not with the violent shaking that's been rippling through the ship these last few minutes, and if he concentrates hard enough, he can almost feel the inertial dampeners straining to keep up with whatever stress the ship is enduring.

 

"Oh _Jesus_ ," McCoy breathes, and turns to his staff. "Everybody out! You heard the captain!"

 

There is no panic, only deadly urgency. There are a few crewmen in Medical for minor injuries, and the medical staff gather them up and escort them to the escape pods first. McCoy himself visually sweeps Sickbay and verifies that everyone is out before reporting to the nearest unoccupied pod. It's like a damn glass-lined coffin, and he crams himself in, forcing his breathing patterns to something resembling normal. His gills spasm, desperately trying to make up the difference, and then he's being shot out into space and he simply can't _breathe_.

 

Falling away below him, the _Enterprise_ tumbles into the upper atmosphere of a planet, a halo of fire flaring to life around her. The doctor presses himself to the glass, speechless, staring in shock. She's hardly recognizable without her warp nacelles, holes blasted clean through multiple decks, and McCoy can't see if the bridge is intact. The ship is already too far away to see any details, overtaken by a haze of orange-white flame, and he can see what look like sparks trailing behind. Pieces of the ship, or maybe more escape pods; he can't tell at this distance.

 

He's helpless to act, trapped in this tiny glass and metal box as it plummets towards the planet, following the doomed ship down. It's every worst fear he's ever had, come to life. He doesn't know what's happened, what this planet is, why the _Enterprise_ is crippled and burning, or even if everyone else made it off the ship before it was too late. McCoy squeezes his eyes closed, wishing this was all a bad dream. A flare of white light, so bright that he can see it through his eyelids, tells him that the ship has reached the ground, and he reluctantly looks down.

 

He can't even see the _Enterprise_ through the massive plume of thick black smoke, a trail carved into the forest below, ending in a crumpled slag heap that can't _possibly_ be the ship.

 

"Oh God," he chokes out.

 

There's a faint shudder as his escape pod's parachute pops, slowing his descent as he approaches the ground. He's not going to land anywhere near the crashed ship, miles and miles to the southeast, and a whole new fear makes itself known to him: the chilling certainty that he's going to be alone on an unknown alien world.

 

The landing is not a smooth one. The escape pod impales the ground below, embedding itself in a muddy riverbank. McCoy bangs his head into the glass from the whiplash of the impact, and he curses, clutching at his forehead. It's going to bruise, but thank God it wasn't worse.

 

The escape pod's computer proclaims that the atmosphere outside is non-toxic to humans, and he needs no further encouragement. He fumbles for the door release and blows the hatch, stumbling out and inhaling deep gulps of air. The area he's touched down in is lightly forested, predominantly rocks, and he thanks his lucky stars that he didn't slam into a mountainside. There's little sound, save for the wind and the gentle roar of flowing water, and strange animal calls that remind him of birds and, oddly, howler monkeys.

 

McCoy takes a few minutes to regain his composure, willing his hands to stop trembling uncontrollably, before he returns to the escape pod and begins unpacking the survival gear. His shipboard uniform is going to be too thin to survive any kind of cold night, so he trades it for the blue survival uniform immediately, keeping the pod's phaser close at hand in case any critters decide to take advantage of his distraction. The pod also contains a standard communicator, a pack of basic survival gear, field rations, and more importantly, an emergency field medical kit. God bless Starfleet being prepared. It helps to know that any surviving crew will have the same equipment at their disposal, as there's no way he will be able to find and treat every survivor in need.

 

_Survivor._ The implications of that make him shudder. He doesn't have a clue what happened to shoot down the _Enterprise_ , but there's no way it was bloodless. _How many crew just died?_

 

He puts that out of mind. All he can do now is focus on his own survival, and finding somebody, anybody else. He flips open the communicator. "McCoy to... anybody? Anyone else alive out there?"

 

There's an ominous silence, a hiss of static, and then a familiar voice responds, very quiet. " _I am here, Doctor._ "

 

"Spock? Is that you?" McCoy demands, his face screwing up with the effort of trying to hear the Vulcan through the static. No, it's not the interference... Spock's voice is weak. Cursing, he sets his communicator to track the incoming signal and grabs his gear, abandoning the now-useless escape pod. "Stay put, I'm headed your way."

 

" _Acknowledged._ " And that's all Spock says in reply.

 

The signal leads McCoy downriver, deeper into the mountainous terrain and away from the forest. There's a faint wisp of smoke curling into the sky ahead, and he feels a surge of fear at the implications as he picks up the pace. Spock may not have the time to spare for him to be cautious.

 

He rounds the bend and there is another escape pod, dented and battered, a small fire burning in its side. The transparent exit hatch is shattered, presumably from the force of a stronger impact than it was designed for, and even from this distance he can see glistening green spattering the rocks in front of the destroyed hatch. There's a glimpse of blue still inside, and as McCoy skids to a stop, he can see that Spock is still inside, unmoving.

 

"Spock!" he shouts, reaching in to grab the first officer. He hauls Spock out of the burning escape pod, careful not to jostle him too hard, especially once he notices a green-stained shard of glass protruding from the Vulcan's side. His own eyes are burning from the smoke, and his gills ache like he hasn't swum in a week. "Gotta get you away from the smoke," he grunts, concerned that Spock doesn't seem interested in answering - or helping move himself out of danger, for that matter.

 

McCoy drags Spock a good twenty feet away and carefully lays him back on the pebbled riverbank. He pulls out the emergency medkit's tricorder and sets it for Vulcan physiology, running the scanner over Spock's body. His heart clenches a bit when he sees how bad the internal damage is. One more inch to the left, and that shard would be going right through Spock's pulmonary artery. It's a miracle that it hasn't severed any major blood vessels already, and it can't stay there... but the emergency medkit isn't intended for damage this bad. He's going to have to improvise.

 

He presses a hypo full of painkiller to the first officer's shoulder. Not strong enough for what he needs to do, but it's what he has. "Dammit, Spock, you couldn't make things easy for once," he snaps, and is surprised to see Spock's eyes flutter open at the verbal abuse.

 

"My apologies, doctor," the Vulcan says, his voice quiet and shaky. "Circumstances were out of my control."

 

McCoy sighs, partly in his usual approximation of annoyance, partly in relief that Spock isn't comatose from blood loss. At least, not yet. "Hey, there ya are. Hang tight, I'm fixing to get that outta you. How's the pain?" he asks, returning to the wreckage of the escape pod, searching for any broken metal shards big enough for what he needs.

 

"...tolerable," Spock replies after a moment, which is worrying by itself. "The captain?"

 

"Haven't seen him yet," McCoy answers shortly, unable to even consider the possibility that Kirk didn't get out in time. One crisis at a time. Spock will bleed to death if he doesn't act now. He finds a splinter of the pod's outer shell, as wide as his palm, and nods. It'll have to do. He returns to Spock's side and heats the end of the splinter with a sustained low-power phaser beam until it glows white-hot. It's uncomfortable to hold onto, but it's sterile, and more importantly, it's hot enough to cauterize. A barbaric solution, but it's that or nothing.

 

He tugs up Spock's shirt, out of the way of the wound. This isn't gonna be pretty. "Hey Spock," he says, as casually as he can, "what's your favorite color?"

 

Those arrow-straight eyebrows furrow in confusion as Spock blinks at him. "I do not have a pref-"

 

McCoy grabs the shard and yanks it out in one clean jerk, ignoring the green blood spattering on himself from the force of it. In the same instant, he presses the burning splinter against the wound, and Spock _screams_ , writhing in agony. The doctor keeps up the pressure, holding it there until he's sure that the wound is burned shut, and tosses it away the moment he's certain. "They say it hurts less if you aren't expecting it," he says, figuring he owes Spock an explanation for why he just tortured the fellow for no apparent reason.

 

Spock takes deep, shuddering breaths, all semblance of Vulcan calm gone. His color isn't great, and he's lost more blood than McCoy is comfortable with, but he's not actively bleeding anymore. "Doctor," he answers, voice strained, "using your parlance, I believe that to be 'horseshit.'"

 

Despite the seriousness of the situation, McCoy can't quite stop the surprised laugh from escaping him. "Yeah, it kinda is. Listen, we're not safe here. We gotta find shelter, and you're not in any shape to go traipsing around. Can you do that Vulcan healing trance thing and get back on your feet anytime soon?"

 

"I will attempt it," Spock answers after a moment, turning slightly glassy eyes in the doctor's direction. There's a note of fear in his voice, but weirdly, something that also feels like trust. It's _bizarre_ to realize that not only is Spock feeling _vulnerable_ for once, but that he believes McCoy is capable of caring for him. "I will be dependent on you to protect me, as I will be unable to respond to any threats."

 

McCoy clears his throat awkwardly. "Uh, yeah. How long's that gonna take?"

 

"I must confess I am... unable to calculate it at this time. Hours. Perhaps days."

 

"Right." McCoy runs the tricorder over Spock again, making sure he's stable enough for the moment. "Shelter first then. I wanna get you somewhere defensible before I'm supposed to guard your sorry ass by myself."

 

Spock stares at him, and slowly nods. "That is... acceptable."

 

"Good." McCoy presses the phaser into Spock's hand. "I'm gonna go scout out a good spot. You shoot anything that tries to eat you in the meantime."

 

Spock's hand tightens around the phaser, but he looks disconcerted, beyond what the pain would account for. "Doctor, be advised... we are being watched. I cannot tell from where, but there is a presence. And it is aware of us."


	8. Survive

Chekov is alone.

 

The forest is eerily silent around him, most of the animals scared off by the sound of his escape pod crashing through the thick canopy. To his dismay, the rough landing has damaged his communicator, rendering it incapable of receiving any signals. Now more than ever, he wishes his empathy was the sensing kind, not projectional. He has no idea if there is anyone even close to him, let alone which direction they might be in.

 

He's tempted to start yelling, but there could be hostile animals, or natives who won't take kindly to a human wandering around their territory. So he stays silent, tightly gripping his phaser, and carefully makes his way through the dense forest toward the enormous smoke plume in the far distance, barely visible through gaps in the trees.

 

"Vhy did Starfleet have to make the survival suits blue and _yellow_?" he laments to himself out loud, under his breath, just to hear the sound of another voice. He feels like a bright, shiny target against the backdrop of green. All around him, the animal noises are slowly beginning to resume as the local wildlife find their voices again, and he tries not to jump at the weird roars that occasionally scream out several miles away.

 

To his own ears, his footsteps sound deafeningly loud, crunching twigs and dried leaves beneath his boots, and his heart leaps into his throat at the sound of something big moving through the bushes only yards away. He quickly turns, aiming his phaser at the source of the noise, bracing himself for an attack.

 

But the rustling suddenly rushes away from him, and before he can wonder why, there's the heavy sound of beating wings as some large aerial predator swoops overhead, above the canopy, scaring the unseen stalking beast away.

 

A predator... or perhaps Captain Kirk?

 

Chekov decides to risk it. "Keptin?" he calls loudly, keeping his phaser at the ready, and he adds a quick burst of emotion skyward, full of uncertainty and hope.

 

The sound of enormous wings changes direction, doubling back to pass over Chekov again, and something heavier than any Earth bird lands on a high branch, forcing the limb to bend and leaves to shake loose. He hunkers down, aiming his phaser toward the top of the tree, ready to fire if it turns out he's drawn the attention of a hungry animal.

 

"Chekov, is that you?" Kirk's familiar voice calls, and Chekov briefly shuts his eyes in relief, phaser arm dropping.

 

"Spasiba," he mutters to himself, then raises his voice again. "Yes, keptin!"

 

The tree rustles again, and now he can see glimpses of blue and gold as Kirk weaves through the branches, climbing his way lower to the ground. He stops before he reaches the forest floor, crouching on a low branch, and quickly looks over Chekov. "You all right?" The captain doesn't appear to be hurt either, something that's sure to be pleasant surprise to Doctor McCoy, when they find him. It's a little surprising how at home he appears in the tree as well, easily balancing on booted feet on the narrow branch, wings partly extended for balance.

 

"I am uninjured," Chekov is happy to report. "It is _wery_ good to see you, sir."

 

"You too." Kirk's expression is grim, and Chekov can't blame him. His own heart sinks when he recalls what has become of their beautiful home, the smoldering wreck in the distance. It must be infinitely worse for the captain. "I've been calling on all frequencies but I've only gotten a few responses. What happened to your communicator?"

 

"Broken vhen I landed, sir," Chekov says apologetically, grateful that his own natural talents made up the difference in this case, at least. "I vas headed towards... the wreck. It is the only landmark I can see."

 

Kirk nods slowly, something dark in his eyes. "I was doing the same. It's not going to be a safe shelter, but it's our best chance to rendezvous with most of the survivors." He stops, looking at Chekov, considering something. "What's your range?"

 

Chekov tilts his head, puzzled by the question. "Sir?"

 

"Your empathic projections," Kirk clarifies. "How far away can people sense you, if you're trying for distance? And how long can you keep it up?"

 

"Ah. I have a one kilometer radius," Chekov answers. "In one specific direction, I have been able to project just over two kilometers. I can project constantly for two or three hours. Vhy do you ask?"

 

Kirk nods, apparently satisfied with the answer. "I'm going to keep scouting ahead. We not only need to find as many crew as we can, but also food, water, and anything that we might be able to use for shelter. If we split up, we have a better chance of finding any of those. Keep broadcasting; if any other crew are nearby, they'll be able to find you, and so will I."

 

Chekov grips his phaser nervously. "Aye, keptin."

 

Kirk smiles at him. "You'll be fine. I'll check on you every half an hour, just in case."

 

The young navigator nods, deliberately projecting confidence so the captain can feel it. "Yes, keptin. Be careful, sir."

 

"You too." Kirk's impressive wingspan is apparently no obstacle to climbing back up through the branches, because he disappears from sight with a speed that surprises Chekov. The top of the tree snaps back, swaying as the captain's weight lifts back into the air, and the sound of wings beating sweeps off to the side, slowly fading from his hearing.

 

Chekov is alone again. But this time, he has his captain watching out for him. He keeps his phaser ready, loping through the forest towards the wreck of the _Enterprise_ , projecting his determination in all directions. He rather doubts that he will cross paths with any other survivors soon, but hope springs eternal, and now Kirk knows where he is. It's surprisingly comforting to know.

 

He doesn't know what is going to happen now. Whether the strange ships that destroyed the _Enterprise_ will come back to finish them off, or whether there will be any kind of rescue. But the lack of a plan doesn't scare him, because the captain is here. And Captain Kirk is absolutely amazing at pulling all kinds of workable ideas out of nowhere. If anyone can get them through this alive, it's him.


	9. Shellshock

He doesn't know how long it's been. It could be minutes, hours, even days. But he can't move, sealed inside the escape pod, slumped against the inadequate padding and not feeling an ounce of that discomfort in favor of the black hole that's opened up in his heart. Scott cries until his eyes are swollen and red from the tears, unable to feel anything other than his violently severed technomancer bond with the _Enterprise_.

 

Countless ages later, he drags himself out of the black fog of despair, and blinks blearily at the world outside. There's some kind of sparse forest and a hell of a lot of rocks, and nothing else. He grimaces, and gathers his courage enough to reach out with his mutant senses. Aside from his escape pod, there's no sign of technology in range. _Any_ technology, of any kind.

 

It's almost enough to make him simply give up, to sit in the last remnant of the _Enterprise_ he'll ever feel, and just... let go. _But the others are counting on you to help them._ It's just a stray thought, but he is a Starfleet officer, and it's enough.

 

He takes several deep, shaky breaths as he tries to regain his composure. To be bonded to a machine for so long, and then to have her violently ripped apart around him... he's never felt pain like it before, and he hopes to God he never feels anything like it again. A lesser man might not have survived.

 

Scott opens the escape pod at last, and steps out on shaky legs. He follows his training on autopilot, gathering his survival gear, doing his best not to think of his beautiful lady smoldering in the distance. Which is going to be difficult, once he realizes where everyone else is going to be headed. Where he'll need to go, if he expects to meet up with the rest of the crew.

 

He uses his sleeve to wipe tears from his eyes, irrationally annoyed at himself. This is no time for wallowing in his pain. The _Enterprise_ is gone, and there's nothing he can do to change that. Nothing he can do to ease the horrible black pit in his stomach, and dwelling on it won't help. He steels himself and sets off, welcoming the distraction that navigating this alien landscape brings.

 

At least, that's up until the world turns upside-down.

 

He blinks, dizzy, all the blood rushing to his head, and there's a strange squeezing pain at his ankle. He cranes his head... upwards? ...to look at his leg, somewhat surprised to see a deliberately constructed vine snare dangling him three meters above the forest floor.

 

He drops his gaze downwards, and yelps in surprise. There is a young humanoid woman standing below him, holding some kind of weighted staff in a threatening posture. He's never seen a species quite like hers before. White hair, white skin, strange black markings on her face, and hard amber eyes glaring up at him. She's dressed in mismatched scraps, clearly scavenged from multiple sources, but well-worn like she's spent years in them. Her eyes narrow as she looks him over.

 

"Uh, hi there," Scott says, not quite able to summon a disarming smile like the captain would.

 

She blinks, and reaches up with her staff to whack the chest of his survival uniform. "Where you get that?" she demands in highly accented, but recognizable, English.

 

"Ow." He's so surprised to hear a familiar language that he doesn't even think to come up with any kind of lie. "What, my jacket? It's standard Starfleet survival gear. You speak English?"

 

Her expression doesn't change a bit. "I learn it in my house," she says, and isn't _that_ as cryptic as all hell. "What means this 'Starfleet'?"

 

"It's, ah, who I work for. I'm an officer in Starfleet. Engineering division."

 

Her eyes widen slightly, and she regards him in a new light, although whether that's good or bad remains to be seen. He is still dangling by one leg, after all, and she hasn't made a move to release him. She leans a little closer to him. "Engineering. You fix things."

 

"Yes, that's right. Can you let me down, please?" he adds, figuring he might as well ask. He's starting to get light-headed from being upside-down, but he swears he can feel a hint of technology on her person, which is enough to get his attention.

 

She slowly walks a circle around him. "You are falling from the sky. The bees take your house. You want to eat me?"

 

" _Eat_ ye? Good God, no, lassie." Scott is appalled by the insinuation. What on Earth has she heard about Starfleet out here that makes her think they _eat_ people? "I just want to find my crewmates."

 

She nods, and strikes the tree next to her, instantly letting out the tension in the vine. Scott lets out an involuntary yelp as the ground rushes up at his face, but the alien girl has grabbed the vine and eased him down the last foot or so. "I help you find your mates. You help me fix my house," she says, matter-of-factly, in a way that would make Spock jealous.

 

Scott kicks off the snare and scrambles to his feet. "You want me to fix your house? I'm not a bloody carpenter, lassie."

 

"I am not Lassie," she snaps at him. "I am Jaylah."

 

He holds up his hands apologetically. "Jaylah. Nice name. I'm Montgomery Scott. Uh, everyone calls me Scotty."

 

She tilts her head, regarding him with amber eyes. "Come, Montgomery Scotty. You will fix my house. It is engineering."

 

Right. He can't really argue with that. And maybe having a problem to fix will help distract him from the gaping hole in his heart where the _Enterprise_ used to be. It's unlikely, but he's not going to get any better offers. "All right then, las- uh, Jaylah. Lead the way."

 

She sets off immediately, her staff held at the ready, and immediately Scott notices that she seems wary. A somewhat ominous clue that there must be dangerous wildlife, at the least. "So, ah, that trap of yours. That's for hunting? You have to catch animals to eat?"

 

She gives him a disgusted look. "It is for Krall," she says simply.

 

"Krall?" Scott scratches his head, puzzled. "I don't know that word."

 

Jaylah looks irritated by having to explain, but she does answer. "He hunt me. He eat all who are falling from the sky. _He_ is animal. I do not eat him. It is..." Apparently she can't think of the right word in English, because she just spits on the ground, which says it all, really.

 

"Ah. Krall bad, got it," Scott says nervously, and finally has the sense to draw his phaser, just in case. "What's he look like?"

 

She stops moving forward, and turns to face him. "He look like you. Whatever you are. His skin dark, more fur on face. Not so much clothes, but _this_ ," she adds, jabbing a finger into his chest, right on his Starfleet insignia. "He wear this."

 

Scott is horrified. "Krall is _Starfleet_?"

 

Jaylah nods, her expression grim. "Yes. He never talk to me. To anyone. I find others before - he eat them too. Krall here already when _I_ fall from the sky."

 

He doesn't know what to say. Some kind of marooned Starfleet cannibal madman, lurking in the forest... who could've seen _that_ coming? "So... he's been here a long time, then? How long have you been here?"

 

She looks away, so he can't see her face, but he can make a good guess at her mood. "Long."

 

His heart is already in agony for one lost lady, now it aches for another. He can't speak for a moment, and all he can think to do is reach out to touch her shoulder. She looks at him, baffled. "All right, Jaylah," he says, clearing his throat. "Let's go see this house of yours."


	10. Signal

The forest on this planet is kind of creepy.

 

Sulu has always been at home among even alien flora, as long as he can connect to it. It's comforting to feel the simple needs of plants, their roots stretching deep for water and nutrients, turning green faces up to catch the sun. But from the moment he pops his escape pod's exit hatch, he can tell that this forest is... different.

 

Oh, it still has the same biological needs as any plants. As far as he can tell, there are no bizarre alien carnivorous bushes lurking about, or anything like that. But they feel almost like they're waiting for something. Watching him. Which is ridiculous, because if he concentrates and probes deeper, not a single plant in range is sentient. But at the same time, he knows he's not imagining it.

 

There's nothing he can do about it except go on, and stay alert.

 

By sheer luck, another escape pod is in sight only a hundred meters away. He waves as a red-suited figure hops out, and Uhura waves back. It's good to know that not only is she apparently uninjured, but he's not going to be alone in this creepy forest.

 

She ducks back into her escape pod momentarily to change into her more practical survival uniform, then she's scrambling over tree roots and half-buried boulders to join him. "Hey, good to see you," she greets him.

 

"You too," he answers honestly, trying to smile. It's easier than he thought it'd be. "Give me a minute to finish packing up my gear and we can hit the road."

 

She nods, and flips open her communicator. "Uhura to _Enterprise_ crew. If anyone can hear me, please respond." There's a weird crackling noise, almost like static, but her gaze intensifies and she tilts her head to hear the subtler sounds better. It doesn't sound like a voice to Sulu, but she's always had the best ability to pick out aural patterns out of anyone on the ship. If there's something there to hear, she's the one who'll hear it.

 

"More survivors?" he asks after a moment.

 

She shakes her head and purses her lips. "Interference from that old distress beacon." She fiddles with the settings on the communicator, activating its signal tracker. "It looks like its point of origin isn't that far off the straight route to the _Enterprise_ crash site. We should probably investigate."

 

Sulu raises his eyebrows in surprise. This is a survival situation, and it seems odd to him that she would want to detour for sightseeing. "If the signal's that old, it's not like there'd be anyone there to rescue, even if we were in a condition to do that."

 

"I know that, but if it didn't go up in a fireball like... well. There might be supplies or equipment we could use," Uhura counters, tilting her head in a slight challenge. Technically, as command track and Second Officer, Sulu outranks her despite them both being lieutenants. He could order her to ignore it.

 

But her suggestion is a sound one, and they've both seen their captain consult all his relevant experts before making a command decision before. Kirk has always said that it's more important to make an informed decision than an impulsive one, whenever that's possible anyway. "That's a good idea," Sulu says instead. "I doubt there's any food or water, but there might be more medical supplies, or other survival gear we don't have now. How far do we have to walk?"

 

"Fifty kilometers, give or take." She tries to coax more information out of the communicator, but it's reached its limit of what it can tell them. "Judging by the angle of the sun, though, it looks like it'll be dark before we get there."

 

"We should travel until we find shelter," Sulu suggests. "Get a fresh start in the morning. I don't want to find out the hard way what kind of nocturnal wildlife this planet has lurking around."

 

"No argument from me," Uhura agrees, and sighs a little. "I've never been a fan of marathon running, and now we've got a forest in the way. One of us is probably going to twist an ankle."

 

Sulu shrugs, managing to smile. "Look on the bright side. We're probably going to be in great shape by the time we get there."

 

She rolls her eyes at him, but there's a gentle humor to it. "Let's get going. Daylight's burning."

 

Sulu takes the lead, phaser in hand, and he keeps his mutant senses alert for any changes in the surrounding plants. It's no substitute for a real early-warning system, but Starfleet has always taught him to make use of what he has. Behind him, Uhura signals at regular intervals, trying to get ahold of someone, anyone else.

 

They've walked for two hours before Uhura speaks to him. "I'm worried about Spock."

 

That's understandable, he feels. Sulu is fortunate in that his family is not part of the _Enterprise_ , so he knows they're safe and sound at _Yorktown_. But Uhura has no such comfort. "He's a smart guy," Sulu says, trying to smile in reassurance. "I'm sure he's fine."

 

She shakes her head. "I know, but... I can't feel anything from him, and that bothers me. We have a... bond, of sorts. It's not strong, but it is there. Usually I can get some idea of what he's thinking, but there's just... nothing."

 

Sulu frowns and turns toward her. "Isn't it possible you're just too far away from him? The escape pods are bound to be spread across tens of thousands of square kilometers, and we ejected long before he must have."

 

"Maybe." She doesn't sound like she quite believes him, but she gives him a slightly appreciative look in response, before her expression slides back into concern. "He was bothered about something when we left _Yorktown_. I never got a chance to ask him about it."

 

"I'm sure you'll get the chance, once we rendezvous with everyone else," Sulu says, attempting to sound confident about that. If he can do nothing else for her, he can at least try to be optimistic. "Spock's a survivor, Nyota. Wouldn't you feel it if he hadn't made it? Through the bond, I mean."

 

Uhura nods, but doesn't smile. "I think so. But I'm not going to stop worrying about it until I see him with my own eyes."

 

He stops walking and gives her a hug, the only thing he can think to do. She wraps her arms around him, taking his comfort for what it's worth. The only human contact they may have in days is each other.

 

It will have to do. There is no other option.


	11. Trance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The weather outside is horrible and I have nothing to do but write, so have another chapter today, on the house.

It takes McCoy nearly an hour of searching to find a cave along the river, deep in the side of the mountainous canyon they're stuck in. It's uncomfortably dry for his tastes, but that's just what a desert-dweller like Spock needs. He takes the time to sweep the cave for any hostile native critters, scaring out a pack of dusty brown lizards which hiss at him and scurry into tiny cracks in the stone, their beady eyes glaring at him accusingly.

 

The doctor rolls his eyes at them and quickly returns to Spock. The Vulcan is right where he left him, eyelids at half-mast, still gripping the phaser as tightly as his weakened hands will allow. He blinks at the sound of McCoy's footsteps crunching on gravel, rousing himself to a more alert state. "Doctor."

 

"Hey, found you a good spot," McCoy announces with false cheer. "Up and at 'em, Spock."

 

"At what?" Spock asks, frowning.

 

"Forget it." McCoy kneels, and gets Spock's arm draped over his shoulder. "Come on, up we go. On your feet, that's it." Spock sways, but he's standing, which is fantastic because the doctor's back is not up to the challenge of trying to drag him all the way to the damn cave. "Anything exciting happen while I was gone?" he asks as they shuffle forward, across the gravelly riverbank.

 

"Nothing of note," Spock says after a moment. "I must confess I found myself quite distracted."

 

"That's fair," McCoy says, nodding. "You took one hell of a gut shot. I wouldn't expect you to be firing on all thrusters."

 

But oddly, Spock shakes his head. "That is not what I mean. I was... already contemplating my own mortality, before the events of today."

 

McCoy stops walking, turning his head to regard the Vulcan in surprise. "You were? Why the hell were you...? Is there something I should know?" he demands, now wondering if Spock has been hiding some kind of terminal illness from him. Or maybe something's gone wrong at home, with his dad. It's not like Spock has much family left, after the tragedy of Vulcan.

 

Spock's injury must be affecting his emotional control, because his eyes are suspiciously damp. "Ambassador Spock has died."

 

Oh. _Oh._ Talk about a gut shot. "Spock, I'm so sorry." What do you even _say_ about shit like this? Weird enough that there were two Spocks running around. McCoy only met the old geezer the one time, when he'd asked for permission to visit Kirk in the hospital after the whole _Vengeance_ debacle. But he knows that Spock and Kirk have both talked with the guy more than once, and clearly, it meant a lot to Spock. How would he himself react, if he received news that some other old Leonard McCoy had passed away? "I can't even imagine what that must... _feel_ like."

 

Spock takes a step forward, and they begin moving again, resuming their slow path toward shelter. "It is... difficult to describe."

 

"Yeah, I bet."

 

"He lived a full and honored life. I can only hope to one day be as wise as he. His loss is one that my people all share." Spock bows his head, but doesn't slow down, trusting McCoy to not let him step falsely. "He left items in my keeping."

 

"Oh yeah?" McCoy asks, steering them around a large boulder. "Anything interesting?"

 

"I do not know," Spock says, and he actually sounds upset about that. "I had intended to review his personal effects at a later date, once I had time to process his loss. To do so immediately would have felt... disrespectful. Too abrupt, too... final."

 

McCoy has never heard Spock this vulnerable before, and God help him, he feels for the man. His own expression softens in sympathy. "You didn't want to believe he was really gone, and looking at his stuff would bring it all home too painfully."

 

"Yes. I had stowed his belongings in my quarters, where I believed they would be safe. Now it seems I may never know what parting thoughts he wished to leave me." Regret colors every word he says, an odd thing coming from Spock. Not that it isn't entirely understandable. "I should not have waited."

 

"No, Spock. You couldn't have known this was going to happen," McCoy says, interrupting this pity party before it can really begin. They've got enough shit to deal with just trying to survive here. "And if you did, shame on you for not saying anything."

 

He's a little shocked to hear Spock actually chuckle a bit at that. " _Kadiith_. You are correct. Perhaps it is the... human in me."

 

"Spock, I'm gonna tell you a secret," McCoy says, " _everyone_ 's human."

 

"Indeed?" Spock raises an eyebrow, and he seems to find _that_ funny, too, like McCoy's a damn comedian. But hey, whatever gets his mind off these melancholy thoughts about old Spock biting the dust.

 

"Yeah. Here we are." The cave beckons just ahead, and McCoy helps Spock step down into the darkness. The lizards are still gone, though he can hear skittering noises that means they're still around somewhere, out of sight.

 

"This is... adequate," Spock approves, as the doctor helps ease him down to rest on the cave floor. There's a new patch of wet green growing on the first officer's shirt, and McCoy checks on the wound, swearing under his breath.

 

"You're bleeding again. It doesn't look critical yet. Better get yourself under so you can heal." McCoy unpacks the medical kit and runs the tricorder over Spock, just to be sure. "Anything I need to know about this voodoo thing?"

 

"Only that you do as I ask, when I request you wake me. I will proceed." Then Spock shuts his eyes and just _goes_. On the tricorder, his vitals plummet alarmingly fast, and McCoy's own heartbeat races as he checks the readings. Slow pulse and respiration, and even lower body temperature than he normally employs, and brainwave patterns that look nothing like his usual ones.

 

"Well," McCoy mutters into the silence, "at least you're gonna get your beauty sleep." He scratches at his gills, wishing he had time for a dip in the river. He feels itchy all over, and the dry air in the cave certainly isn't helping. But Spock had said they were being watched, and he can't just leave him to get eaten by critters or kidnapped by natives or whatever.

 

He grimaces, and rubs at his chest, where the worst of the itching seems to be centered. There's an odd texture to it, like there's something stuck to his skin, and he frowns. There shouldn't be anything there.

 

McCoy unzips his jacket and pulls his shirt collar forward, and gapes in shock. Spreading across his chest are strange iridescent scales, as big as his fingernails.

 

"What in blazes is this?"


	12. House

Apparently having someone to talk to helps. Scott still feels the deep roaring pain in his gut from the loss of his beloved _Enterprise_ , but it's something he can try to ignore, or at least push it down so it isn't as immediate.

 

Not that Jaylah is much of a talker.

 

She seems to know where they're going though, heading steadily in a single direction, varying her course only to circumvent the occasional ravine or large boulder, or to avoid one of her own traps.

 

Scott clears his throat, trying to think of how to connect with his inadvertent companion. "So, Jaylah... how far is this house of yours?" He cringes a bit inwardly. _Did I really just ask her 'are we there yet?'_

 

She gives him only a brief glance, vaulting over a fallen log. "Sun will be there," she says, gesturing to a patch of sky with her quarterstaff, about ten degrees lower in the sky than the star currently sits. Which is entirely unhelpful, since he has no idea what kind of rotational period this planet has, but on reflection he realizes there isn't a more useful answer she could probably give. Whoever her people are, they probably don't use the same units for distance or time that the Federation does.

 

"Right-o," he says instead, as if her answer made total sense. He's a lot less graceful scrambling over the log than she was, not used to all this nature stuff. Jaylah has apparently been doing this for a _really_ long time, because she flows through the environment like she was born to do it. "So, how'd you know to find me?"

 

She gives him a blank look. "I saw many fall. You were close. I came to take your things if you were dead."

 

Well, that's morbid, but he also can't say he doesn't get where she's coming from. "Is that how you've survived here all this time? Scavenging from other people who've crashed here?"

 

Jaylah nods, apparently not deeming this worth elaborating on, because she doesn't offer any additional information.

 

Scott decides not to let that stop him. She's seemed willing to at least answer his questions, even if it is like pulling teeth to get anything more than the basics. "Why are there so many who've crashed here? There can't be that many people who've decided to go sailing through an uncharted nebula."

 

"I do not know what is nebula," she responds, a little puzzled. "My family went through..." She makes a circular gesture with her free hand, almost a spiral. "Great hole in the stars."

 

"A wormhole?" Scott guesses. "And it dumped you out here?"

 

"Bees took our house," she continues. "They come from this world, into the stars. They shoot us down. Our house was gone. I took another, already here. My family... Krall found them."

 

"Oh. I'm sorry, lass. Er, Jaylah." From what she's told him about this Krall guy, whatever he did to her family is probably something she'd rather not talk about. "What can you tell me about the... bees, you call them?"

 

She shrugs, and nimbly jumps down into some kind of overgrown ravine. It's a drop of only a few meters, but Scott hesitates to follow. "They take everyone, to bring them here. Nothing else can I say." Jaylah looks up and scowls when she sees he's still at the top of the ravine. "Come, Montgomery Scotty. My house is not far."

 

Scott grimaces, but he carefully judges the distance and lowers himself over the edge to reduce the drop. He still stumbles on hitting the ground, and nearly twists an ankle, but to his own surprise he's still in one piece. And there's something teasing at the edge of his senses, some kind of... concentration of technology. Which is incredibly distracting, all things considered, because the severed bond with the _Enterprise_ is still screaming and trying to latch onto something to replace it, to soothe the deep hurt in his soul.

 

And it feels oddly familiar.

 

He frowns, looking down the ravine, which is a hell of a lot straighter than he'd expect from a natural feature. "Jaylah, is your house a _ship_?"

 

That look in her amber eyes tells him that she thinks it's a ridiculously stupid question. "Yes. Come."

 

"Well, that explains a lot," he mutters to himself. The ground is a hell of a lot smoother than he'd expect too, and he realizes with a sudden start that he's standing in an impact scar. Whatever ship has become Jaylah's house, it clearly crashed here, carving this ravine into the landscape. And the amount of plant growth and erosion means that it must have happened a hell of a long time ago.

 

Then he sees it.

 

Scott almost can't process what he's looking at for a long moment, standing stock-still, staring at the two old-style warp nacelles at the far end of the ravine. And beyond them, a familiar style of saucer. "A Starfleet ship?" he exclaims out loud. No _wonder_ he feels such a strong pull toward it. But it looks positively _ancient_ by starship standards.

 

Jaylah leads him to an old airlock in the side of the ship, propped open with a spanner wedged into the door mechanism. He touches the side of the door as he passes through, and there's almost an electric shock as the ship's condition floods his senses. Badly damaged, neglected, _alone_. His heart aches for her, so abused and forgotten, and for a moment he can't even move from the doorway. "Oh, you beautiful lass," he whispers, unable to pull his hand away. She can't replace the _Enterprise_. Nothing can. But it hurts a hell of a lot less now, with something else to bond with, easing the pain. And it's a bit weird that his senses have latched onto another ship so fast, but he's never lost his beautiful lady before. Maybe it's normal.

 

"Jaylah," he says at last, clearing his throat and raising his voice. "Does your house have a nameplate? A kind of plaque with her designation on it?"

 

"Yes," she replies, looking slightly pleased that he likes her house so much. She grabs his arm and tugs, pulling him away from the door, deeper into the ship. "Come, Montgomery Scotty."

 

The ship is far smaller than the _Enterprise_ is - was - so it takes little to no time to reach the bridge. Jaylah leads the way, shining an electric light on the panel he asked for. "Here."

 

Scott traces his fingers over the brass nameplate, wiping away decades of grime. "The USS _Franklin_ ," he murmurs in surprise, though on second thought, perhaps it isn't that much of a shock. The _Franklin_ simply disappeared with all hands nearly a century ago, last seen in the Gagarin Radiation Belt. If Jaylah's family got pulled through a wormhole to this planet, it's entirely possible the same thing happened to this poor ship.

 

He turns to face Jaylah. "You've been working on fixing her, haven't you? I can feel it. She's got all sorts of unorthodox patches all over her."

 

"I try," she answers. "I fix all the holes I find. I do not know how to fix all. Much damage."

 

"Yeah, I can see that. You wouldn't even be able to see some o' this stuff," he says, touching the interior bulkhead and reaching deep into the ship, taking stock of everything that's keeping her from being spaceworthy. Aside from some heavily damaged components, replacements for which he _might_ be able to salvage from the wreck of the _Enterprise_ , there's very little keeping her from being a viable way off the planet. Though once the ship is repaired, there's nothing that'll stop Jaylah's "bees" from bringing the ship down again.

 

One thing at a time.

 

Scott rubs his hands together as he thinks, and turns back to Jaylah. "Right. Let's get started. Comms system first, yeah?"


	13. Scout

It's been four hours since Kirk took to the sky, soaring over dense hilly forest. Four hours of aerial reconnaissance, and in that time, he's come to realize just how enormous of an ordeal this is going to be.

 

Aside from Chekov, he's managed to run across half a dozen officers and direct them toward the empath. But that's it. Even though it seems like his senses have sharpened to compensate for the loss of technological support, trying to find four hundred needles in a planet-sized haystack is next to impossible.

 

And even once he finds most of them... there aren't going to be enough supplies to go around.

 

He tries not to think of it as he passes over a clearing, scanning it for any signs of life. There's a rabbit-like creature grazing under the shelter of a shrub, and it darts away in panic as his winged shadow passes over. _At least there's wildlife. I hope it's edible._

 

Four hundred mouths to feed, if they're lucky. Even with animals to hunt, and hopefully edible plants growing in the woods somewhere, they're going to far outpace the area's ability to sustain them if they have to remain here for long. And he holds little hope of a quick rescue. He can't rely on that and be caught flat-footed if it doesn't come. Plan for the worst, hope for the best.

 

It's impossible _not_ to think of Tarsus IV.

 

_I will not be Kodos._ No matter what, he refuses to consider the same solution. Unlike that blighted planet, there have to be resources here, even if few and far between. And if he has to scatter the crew to ensure their survival...

 

Well. He'll cross that bridge once he finds enough of his crew to worry about it.

 

He catches a glint of light in the distance, and stares hard at it. Sunlight reflecting off water, and now that he's paying attention, he can see the faint break in the trees that winds away into the distance, in the vague direction of the billowing black smoke. _A river. Good. Flowing water is better than a pond or lake._ That, at least, is a resource they won't have to worry about.

 

His thoughts are interrupted by a human-sounding scream.

 

Kirk wheels around instantly, turning nearly on his wingtip, and dives toward the source of the sound. It's half a kilometer away, and as he swiftly closes in on the source, the scream becomes a wet-sounding gurgle, fading below his ability to hear.

 

_Oh shit... predators?_

 

He finds an opening in the canopy and drops below the treetops, whipping his head back and forth to find the source. He catches a glimpse of blue and yellow, crumpled at the base of a tree. There's a rustling sound from the undergrowth as something big flees, scared away by the captain's sudden appearance.

 

For a moment, Kirk is torn between his desire to chase down the attacking creature and his need to check on his crewman. Duty and compassion win out, and he lands on the forest floor, swiftly moving to the man's side.

 

The fallen crewman is hardly recognizable, gray skin stretched tight over bone as though all his muscles and fat have been sucked clean out of him, uniform sagging like it's suddenly five sizes too big. There's no blood, not a single wound to indicate that he's been attacked. Frantic brown eyes stare out of a sunken face as the crewman struggles to breathe, mouth opening and closing as if he's trying to speak, but can't make a sound. And as the captain stands over him helplessly, his eyes glaze over and his chest stills.

 

"What the fuck," Kirk whispers in shock. He's never seen anything like this before, and whatever it is just killed another member of his crew, someone who had survived the destruction of their home and made it safely to the surface of the planet. It's not right.

 

There's nothing he can do for the man now.

 

Kirk reaches out and closes the crewman's eyes, and then stands, turning toward the direction the attacker fled. Whatever it is, it's fast. He can't hear it moving anymore, and even as he follows the trail deeper into the woods, it becomes harder and harder to track. There's no way he's going to be able to find it like this.

 

He stops as a realization strikes. _Chekov and the others don't know about it._

 

Kirk immediately backtracks to the last clearing he passed, legs pumping to gain enough speed to lift off immediately, and he erupts out of the treetops, turning back towards where he last saw his surviving shipmates. Instinct tells him to conserve energy by gliding, but fuck that. He flies hard, wings tiring with every beat, until he senses the gentle ripples of Chekov's wariness radiating at him below the trees.

 

He drops, skimming the treetops for a moment before he finds a gap big enough to fit through, and dives beneath the canopy. Chekov looks up at him in surprise, a bit startled by the captain's sudden appearance. Four of the six crewmen Kirk had found are with him too, and he hopes with all his heart that they just haven't made it here yet.

 

"Captain, what's wrong?" Giotto asks, alarmed by his no-doubt disheveled appearance.

 

"There's some kind of predator in the forest," Kirk announces, touching down hard on the dirt, nearly going to one knee by the force of his landing. His chest hurts from the exertion and he doesn't regret that one bit. "It killed Ensign Phillips. I didn't see what it was, but it... drained him, somehow. Physically. There was nothing left but skin and bones."

 

Chekov is looking at him nervously, and as Kirk scans the group, he realizes they're all giving him an odd look. "What?"

 

"Keptin, your eyes," Chekov says hesitantly. "They are... yellow." He leans slightly closer, blinking in surprise. "And you have feathers in your hair, sir."

 

Whatever he was expecting to hear, it wasn't that. Kirk is taken aback, and without a mirror at hand, there's no way he can check. But they're all looking at him weirdly and he has no reason not to take them at their word. "Never mind that," he says, pushing down his own fear of what might be happening to him. There'll be time to worry about himself later. But then a thought occurs to him. "Chekov," he says slowly, "you said you could project for about three hours, tops. It's been four and you're still going."

 

"Aye, keptin. I have noticed this as vell." Chekov sounds appropriately worried by that, too.

 

Kirk turns to face the other four crewmen. One of them is a carrier, but the other three are all mutants. "What about you? Any change in your status?"

 

The carrier, Kyle, shakes his head, but the three mutants all nod after a moment. "I've been feeling really hot, sir," Barrows volunteers first, and she clenches a fist, wisps of smoke curling out between her fingers.

 

Giotto looks slightly guilty as he confesses, "I've been reading all your surface thoughts for the last hour. I can't seem to turn it off."

 

"I thought the planet's magnetic field was just getting stronger somehow," Hendorff admits.

 

Well if that's not all the more reason to find some of the _Enterprise_ 's medical or science personnel, Kirk doesn't know what _would_ qualify. "There's nothing we can do about it right now. Let me know if the effects get... unsustainable." He doesn't have a clue what he's going to do if that happens, but he's expected to give orders, and it seems reasonable. "Keep phasers on stun and watch out for the creature. We'll keep traveling for another two hours and then make camp... it might be a good idea if we all slept up a tree tonight."


	14. Roots

Uhura's eyes snap open in the dark, and for a moment she holds her breath, uncertain what exactly set off the red alert alarms in her head. She listens, painfully aware of every breeze, every chirp of nocturnal insects, the quiet scurrying of a small mammal in the scrubby bushes. And then she hears it. A slow, deliberate scrape, like hands digging in the dirt.

 

She sits up, and the faint glow of the dusty nebula in the night sky is barely enough for her to see Sulu. Not under the rocky overhang they are using for shelter, but ten feet away, crouched down. His back is toward her, and he leans forward. _Scrape._

 

"Hikaru?" she calls out quietly.

 

There's no response, and the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up. There's something not quite _right_ about how he holds himself. _Is he sleepwalking?_

 

She stands, and approaches him cautiously. He doesn't react to the sound of her footsteps, nor when she clears her throat. "Hikaru? Are you okay?"

 

Uhura keeps her distance as she steps around him, and she kneels down, trying to get a good look at his face. His expression is blank, his eyes locked on the hole he's started to dig in the rocky soil. His hands are already starting to look raw from scraping against the stones in the dirt, but he doesn't seem to notice, simply leaning forward to claw another handful of dirt out of the hole.

 

She worries her lower lip with her teeth, uncertain of what to do. Current medical science still has no evidence one way or the other if it's harmful to wake someone who is sleepwalking. If that's even what this is. But... what else could it be?

 

She makes up her mind, and warily reaches out to touch his shoulder, ready to withdraw if he reacts badly. "Hikaru. Wake up."

 

He freezes in place at her touch, but doesn't otherwise react. Uhura gives him a little shake, and his head snaps up, a dazed look on his face. "What?"

 

"Hey," she says, her voice gentle as she watches him. "Are you all right?"

 

Sulu blinks and looks down, lifting his hands in surprise. "Ow. What was I...?" He trails off, flexing his fingers with a wince.

 

"You were digging," Uhura says, and she pats his shoulder before standing, turning to get their medical kit. His hands aren't badly hurt, but it must be painful. And she really needs something to do right now. "I think you might've been sleepwalking."

 

He rocks back on his heels, and there's a thoughtful, disturbed look on his face when she returns. He doesn't protest as she takes his right hand between hers, disinfecting the scrapes and then wrapping them with bandages.

 

"I wasn't asleep, I don't think," Sulu says at last. "It's like I was being... compelled. Some part of me, wanting to... bury myself?" He sounds confused, uncertain, and quite uneasy. She can hardly blame him.

 

"Do you know why?" Uhura asks. Above all, they are Starfleet officers, and dealing with the disturbing and unknown is their job. And if something is happening to Sulu, they both need to figure out what it is, and how to stop it.

 

He's silent for a long moment, and she finishes tending his right hand, moving on to his left. "I'm... not sure. It's like... what seedlings feel when you transplant them. They just want to put down roots and find a home in the dirt." He frowns and looks up at her, and she can see how well he's handling the fear that he must be feeling. "And I'm really thirsty."

 

"Transplanted seedlings need a lot of water, don't they?" She's not a botanist, but she knows a little just from hearing him talk about it. And given his power... well. It's too soon to jump straight to any conclusions one way or the other.

 

Sulu nods, still flexing his bandaged hand, opening and closing his fist. "I've never felt anything like this before. The thing that worries me the most is that I'm _not_ worried about it. Does that make sense?"

 

"Perfectly." Now that she's done treating his hands, she sits back, uncertain what to do next. What they really need is a doctor, or maybe a psychologist. But all they have is each other, right now. "Are you still feeling the compulsion?"

 

Sulu takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Yeah. Not as strong, but it's there." He shakes his head a bit. "I don't know if I can ignore it enough to get any sleep."

 

There's no telling how long it will be before dawn on this alien world, but Uhura settles on the ground next to her shipmate, and simply wishes that Starfleet survival gear included coffee. The only compulsion she's feeling is the desire to get some more shuteye, and that's not going to happen with a friend in distress. "Maybe if you talked about something else?" she suggests. "How did your visit with Ben and Demora go?"

 

"It was good to see them again. It's been too long. Ben understands, but Demora... she was shy at first." Uhura can hear the hurt in his voice, though he controls it well. "It took her a while to warm up to me again. I think she's a little mad about me being away so much, but I also wonder... if she's starting to forget me a little. I'm her dad. I should be there for her. I've already missed so much."

 

Uhura knows better than to give him any platitudes about Demora understanding when she's older. It's small comfort when he's hurting _now_. "Are you regretting signing up for the five-year mission?"

 

Sulu sighs, and looks up at the alien sky with its unfamiliar stars. "Not regret, exactly. I love my job. But I also want to... put down roots." The corner of his mouth quirks up in a small, ironic smile.

 

She smiles a little too, glad that he can at least find some humor in the situation. It means he's coping, or at least trying. But her smile disappears as he continues. "And now we're stuck here, and I may never see either of them again."

 

She can't give him false words of reassurance here, either. The _Enterprise_ is gone. They're marooned on an uncharted world in the middle of an ionized nebula. And while _Yorktown_ will notice when they don't reappear after a week out of port, that doesn't mean they'll ever be found. So instead, Uhura reaches out to him and puts her hand on his arm. "I can't tell you not to worry about the future. I'm worried too. But you did get to spend time with them as a family, and they know you love them."

 

His chin drops to his chest, and he stares down at the hole he dug with his bare hands. "Yeah," he agrees, quietly. "I just... wish there was more."

 

Uhura gives his arm a gentle squeeze. "I know."


	15. Scales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna post this chapter tomorrow but screw it, you guys have been awesome. :)

_When I get back to civilization,_ McCoy swears as he scans himself, _I am going to have words with whoever programmed these goddamn field medical tricorders. Fucking useless._

 

The tricorder placidly displays the results of the scan, and McCoy goes through the data again. All his vitals are normal. The only difference he can detect from his usual readings is elevated levels of growth hormones, which could either be a cause or a symptom, and that's anyone's guess. What he _really_ needs is the ability to analyze blood samples in a lab, and that's not really something you can squeeze into an escape pod.

 

He can't resist conducting another visual inspection, even though he just looked ten minutes ago. _Is it my imagination, or has it already spread in that time? Jesus._ The palm-sized patch of scales on his chest are now accompanied by mottled splotches on his skin that are already developing the distinct scalloped shape of fishscale, and it itches like the dickens.

 

McCoy grimaces, and digs through the medkit to find a hypo. An antihistamine injection might do absolutely nothing, but he'll do anything to stop the damn itching. How's he supposed to guard Spock if he's distracted by whatever the hell this is?

 

He presses the hypo to his own neck, finding the carotid artery with the skill of long practice. To his relief, it kicks in swiftly, taking the itching from maddening to merely irritating. It's not perfect, but hell, he'll take it.

 

He returns to Spock's side, running the tricorder over him again. Nothing's changed, besides the same weird reading that the healing trance gives him. No elevated growth hormones that McCoy can detect.

 

"So either it's just me, or it's just _mutants_ ," McCoy muses out loud.

 

Spock doesn't answer, of course. He just lies there like a damn rock, hands clasped over his abdomen, taking slow shallow breaths. It's creepy.

 

McCoy takes the phaser and communicator and moves to the cave entrance, fairly confident nothing's gonna slip by him and take a bite out of the Vulcan in the meantime. It feels a little better outside, where he can hear the river flowing through the canyon, and the air's not so dry. It is starting to get a bit dark outside, though, which means night is on its way. Fantastic.

 

He finds a tolerable seat on a boulder and flips open the communicator. "McCoy to _Enterprise_ crew. Anybody out there?" Silence. He clenches his jaw, hoping it's just the canyon getting in the way of the transmission, rather than there being nobody to answer. "Hey, anybody listening? It's getting dark out and I've got shelter. Any other survivors are welcome to join us."

 

Still no reply, just static. McCoy decides to hope that someone's heard him anyway. It's unusually optimistic of him, sure, but weird times call for weird attitudes, he supposes.

 

He doesn't move to rejoin Spock in the cave just yet, still sitting on the rock, looking out toward the river. God, he _really_ wishes he could go for a swim right now. He sighs and scratches at his gills, fingers stilling when he feels the distinct texture of scales growing on his neck, too. "What the hell _is_ this?" he exclaims out loud, his voice bouncing off the canyon walls and echoing back at him.

 

It's a damn mystery. He _hates_ those.

 

"Need a bigger sample size," he mutters to himself. "If I can find out how it's affecting others..."

 

Well. If wishes were fishes, he'd be one himself, apparently. He cranes his neck back and looks up at the narrow band of sky above the canyon, darkening to a dusty purple as a faint glimmer of stars begin to appear in the haze. Time to head back in for the night.

 

He checks on Spock again, noting that the slow bleeding has stopped now, and there are signs of new cellular growth at the edges of his wound, both inside and out. However this Vulcan healing trance works, apparently it's doing a good job. Another several hours at this rate and he'll be completely out of danger, although nothing can be done about replacing the blood he lost, not without a Vulcan donor of the right blood type.

 

McCoy pats his patient's hand, satisfied at his readings. "Well at least _you're_ doing great."

 

His survival training says that he shouldn't fall asleep without someone to stand watch, but dammit, it's been a long, shitty day and he's tired. It never does a patient any good to have a sleep-deprived doctor, either. So he keeps his phaser at the ready and settles with his back against the wall, with a clear view of both the cave entrance and Spock's prone body.

 

He shuts his eyes, but every sound seems amplified, jolting him awake every time he starts to drift off. The gentle patter of lizard feet across the ceiling. The scraping sound of a rock falling down the canyon walls outside. A splash of a fish in the river.

 

And yet before he knows it, he's blinking awake as pre-dawn light seeps into the shallow cave, and he sits bolt upright, casting his gaze wildly around the cave before he realizes where he is. _Right. Alien planet. Spock in a healing trance._

 

McCoy's gaze falls on his patient, and he reaches for his tricorder. Spock's color looks a hell of a lot better, much to his relief. "Hey Spock, you're doing fantastic this morning," he says out loud, and cuts himself off when he notices his own hands. "What the fuck." He holds up one hand, fingers spread, staring at the webbing forming between them. "Well, that ain't exactly a good thing."

 

Spock suddenly inhales sharply, though his eyes remain closed. "Strike me, doctor."

 

"Are you out of your Vulcan _mind_?" McCoy immediately retorts, his continuing mutation forgotten in favor of tending his patient. "You just healed your own gut wound; I'm not gonna hit you." _Hell, there are times I've_ wanted _to slap the shit out of you. Great timing, Spock._

 

"The pain must awaken me or I will remain trapped," the first officer murmurs, brow furrowing deeply. "Strike me."

 

McCoy grimaces as he remembers Spock's last words before going into the trance. "Do whatever you say," the doctor mutters to himself unhappily. But he obligingly kneels over Spock and slaps him across the face, leaving a green handprint on Spock's cheek.

 

Spock's eyes fly open and meet McCoy's. "Thank you, doctor. That is sufficient." He blinks, and a look of surprise flickers across his face as he takes a closer look at the doctor. "What has happened?"

 

McCoy makes a face, wondering how bad he looks. It's not like there's a mirror in here. "Don't know yet. It's like something here's made my x-gene jump into overdrive or something. I need more advanced equipment than I've got to figure it out. You feel okay to travel?"

 

Spock sits up, and McCoy watches him carefully for any signs of pain, satisfied that there aren't any. "I shall be somewhat weakened until my body replenishes the blood I lost to my injury," Spock replies after careful consideration. "But I am sufficiently healed. My thanks for your participation."

 

McCoy tries really hard not to roll his eyes. "You're welcome, Spock. Let's get going."


	16. Hunt

Kirk is awakened from the best sleep of his life at the sound of a scream.

 

He jolts, startled, wings instinctively flaring open to scare off any attackers. It takes a moment to blink the sleep away enough to realize that there are no enemies, no creature sneaking out of the forest to attack them.

 

Hendorff lies sprawled on his back at the base of the tree, looking embarrassed as his crewmates peer down at him from higher branches. "You all right, lieutenant?" Giotto calls down, a little faster at putting the facts together than the still-bleary captain.

 

"I'm fine," Hendorff replies, getting to his feet and brushing dirt off his uniform. "I, um, moved too much in my sleep. Fell off the branch."

 

Now that he's sure there's no threat, Kirk takes a few deep breaths to slow his racing heartbeat, and stretches out, popping most of his joints. The sun's starting to rise anyway, so Hendorff had good timing, all things considered.

 

Something seems wrong, though. Kirk frowns as he tries to place what it is, his stomach growling. _That's not_ my _hunger._ "Chekov, is that _you_?"

 

"Aye, keptin. Sorry." Chekov flushes red with embarrassment, and he runs a hand through his hair, trying to get it back to some semblance of order. "I can't turn it off anymore."

 

"Great." Kirk drops out of the tree, opening his wings just enough to provide a smooth landing, unlike his crewmen. He reaches up to scratch his head, momentarily startled when he feels soft downy feathers instead of hair, and quickly drops his hand. Everything seems clearer, like his senses are sharper than normal, enough that he can't just ignore it. And he's still hungry. "Everyone break out your rations. We're heading north today, towards the river, about ten kilometers off. I'll provide aerial support as needed."

 

His crewmen slowly climb down the tree, a lot less easily than their captain. Barrows leaves smoking black marks in the bark wherever she touches it, and the other men all give her a wide berth, unwilling to accidentally burn themselves by close contact. She looks hurt by it, but only nods in understanding when Kirk gives her a questioning look.

 

"Rations won't last forever, captain," Kyle points out as he takes a seat on a large raised tree root, digging a ration bar out of his pack.

 

Kirk nods grimly. "Yeah, I know. There's wildlife around; I saw some yesterday. Keep an eye out, and if you see a good opportunity to hunt, take it. Go ahead and collect plants and fungi if they look edible, but don't try any until we can test it. With luck, we'll find lunch on the way to the river."

 

A chorus of "aye, sir" answers him, and Kirk lets out a breath in relief as the unnatural hunger abates, leaving only his own. He doesn't partake in breakfast, saving his own rations for later, just in case. It's hard to break old habits, and having food _available_ is a far greater comfort than a full belly, when the next meal is uncertain.

 

He turns to face his crew, wings mantled, feeling restless for no reason he can truly describe. "I'll be flying out farther today, so I may not be in communicator range. Once you're done here, get moving. Barrows, send up a signal flare if you run into trouble."

 

Giotto frowns at him. "Captain, are _you_ all right?"

 

"I'm fine," Kirk says, shutting him down before the mindreader says any more. Thanks to the late Admiral Vel-Marcus, his entire crew knows that their captain was on Tarsus IV, but that doesn't mean he wants to talk about it, or his reasons for not having breakfast with the rest of them. "I'll check in every four hours. Chekov, you're in charge in my absence." And before anyone can protest, he takes a running leap to get airborne, climbing past the canopy into the freedom of the sky.

 

Up in the air, away from the troubled forest below, all his problems seem to drop away into nothing. He spreads his wings wide, catching the air currents to lift him higher, and he visually scans the ground below, watching for signs of prey.

 

Small mammals scurry to safety at his passing, rightfully afraid of the predator that is out hunting today. But he's after bigger game. And the best place to find food is at a water source.

 

He glides toward the river, idly noting that it has carved a canyon of sorts into the landscape, creating a deep pit. An excellent kill zone, with little avenue of escape for whatever unfortunate creature crosses his path. Kirk banks to the left, sweeping downriver, following the winding course of the water. There are few signs of animal life, but movement catches his eye. It's nothing he recognizes - purple, mammalian, about the size of a deer but with eight legs. The furry octodeer thing creeps up to the edge of the river, glancing side to side, watching for ground predators - but never looking up.

 

It's a perfect opportunity. Kirk grins, taking his boot knife in hand, heart racing in the excitement of _finally_ being able to hunt in the way nature intended him to. He tucks in his wings a little, going into a dive, accelerating downward as he rapidly closes the distance.

 

It looks up at the last moment, but too late. Kirk sinks his blade into the animal's neck, landing on its back, slamming it into the graveled riverbank. It screams in pain and fear, struggling to buck him off, and he stabs it again, drawing the knife across its throat, silencing its cries. He plants his foot on its side, holding it down until its movement finally stops, and satisfaction at a successful hunt floods through him, the scent of fresh blood filling his nostrils.

 

Then, a sound from behind him. A clattering of gravel under booted feet, and a startled, "Jesus, _Jim_?"

 

He flings his wings wide, hunching over his kill to protect it, and whips his head around to stare challengingly at the intruders, growling. _MinemineMINE!_

 

He doesn't recognize them at first. Their clothing sparks a sense of familiarity in the back of his mind, but he doesn't remember any of his crew looking so scaly, and the one with pointed ears is smeared with green. All he sees are challengers, coming to steal his rightful prey.

 

The scaly one puts up his webbed hands, brown eyes wide. "Okay, okay Jim. It's me, McCoy."

 

"Captain," the green-smeared one says, raising an eyebrow. "Do you not recognize us?"

 

Kirk blinks, and takes a closer look, some of the wildness seeping out of him. He's a bit startled and embarrassed when he realizes what he's done, how _easy_ it was to slip back into survival mode, in sync with his more feral instincts. And here he stands, soaked in deep red blood, in front of his closest friends after trying to scare them away from his kill by _growling_ like a fucking animal. "Um. I can explain."

 

"No need," McCoy says, looking relieved that the captain is talking to them again, and now Kirk realizes that whatever is causing their mutations to go haywire, it's affecting McCoy too. "I'm just glad to know it isn't just me." His voice is a bit hoarse, his gills looking raw from being out in the air too long, even though the dampness to his hair vouches for a recent swim in the river.

 

"I assume you are hunting for sustenance, captain," Spock says, his perfect posture marred by an uncharacteristic slouch, matching up with the green stain on his shipboard uniform shirt.

 

"Yeah. I found Chekov, Kyle, Barrows, Giotto, and Hendorff," Kirk says, rattling off their names as he gestures southward, where he last saw them. "Everyone's gotta eat. We've only got about four days of rations between us. Does this bother you?" he asks, unsure where this odd surge of defensiveness has come from.

 

"No," Spock says. "Humans are omnivorous, and you must do what is necessary to survive. I cannot fault you for following your instincts, nor resorting to an efficient source of nourishment, particularly when you are unaware which plant life is nontoxic to your species."

 

Kirk tilts his head, a little surprised, but satisfied regardless. "All right then." He wipes his knife clean on his jacket, and sheathes it in his boot. "Actually, you being here helps. I'm not sure I could carry all this back by air." He forces his wings to fold against his back, even though his instincts are still bristling at him to keep others away from his food supply, stronger than they've ever been. "You've gone hunting before, right Bones?"

 

"Yeah, ages ago, when I was a kid," McCoy says, cautiously approaching just in case the captain goes all growly at him again. "You're not just gonna _leave_ us here, though, right?"

 

"Not exactly." Kirk feels guilty for being torn between the two groups. But he has a duty to both. "Help me dress the carcass, and take what you need for a day. I'll take the rest back to them. They're already on their way here. Keep following the river upstream and there's a game trail leading up; I saw it on my way here. Your paths should cross before nightfall." He shakes his head a little. "There's some kind of predator in the forest, Bones. It's already killed at least one crewman. I can't leave them to face it alone."

 

McCoy's stern expression softens a bit. "Yeah, I get it. Come on, then. The quicker we get done here, the quicker we can rendezvous."


	17. Music

Working with Jaylah is kind of weird.

 

It's not because she's a stranger, or because she's an alien, or even because of her less-than-perfect grasp of the English language. And it's certainly not due to a lack of technical expertise, because despite lacking a good amount of advanced technological vocabulary, she's actually done a bloody amazing job patching up some of the ship's systems.

 

Nope, it's because of the music.

 

Scott nearly jumps out of his skin the first time she turns on the sound system, early the next morning. Clearly, getting internal comms working was her top priority at some point before he came along, because the pounding bassline and positively cacophonous screams of some twentieth century singer blast throughout the entire ship on every deck, vibrating the deckplates under his feet like an earthquake. An earthquake that just won't shut up.

 

He comes to find her, only able to track her presence by the small power fluctuations she's causing in the life support systems as she tears them apart to find the loose connections. "Is that music?" he shouts, barely able to hear _himself_ over that godawful noise.

 

Jaylah flashes him a savage grin, all gleaming teeth. "I like the beats and shouting," she calls back, ripping out a mass of wires with her bare hands. He winces at her rough treatment of the ship, stifling the strong urge to make her stop. It may not be proper procedure, but she _does_ get results, eventually.

 

"Yeah, I can see that. Can you turn it down a bit? It's _very_ loud. And distracting." It's not his kind of music, that's for sure. He's never been into classical tunes.

 

She scowls at him, but obligingly pokes the internal comm control with one sharp, pointed fingernail and reduces the volume from deafening to merely bone-rattling. "You do not like it."

 

"Ah, it's not my... style," Scott says as diplomatically as he can, trying not to cringe. The last thing he wants to do is insult his new friend and get kicked out of her house before they can get off this damn planet. "But it's good. Really."

 

She opens her mouth to reply, and then pauses, tilting her head like she's listening to something. Scott can't hear anything, but she pokes the comm system again and the music cuts off mid-beat, leaving a vacuum of silence, empty save for a small beeping sound coming from her belt. "One of my traps," she explains, grabbing her quarterstaff, amber eyes hard with determination.

 

Scott is a bit baffled that she was even able to hear the damn alarm over the noise, but he grabs his phaser and follows her, because what the hell else is he going to do? He's not just going to sit here and let her face down that man-eating Krall guy alone.

 

Jaylah scrambles up the side of the ravine way easier than anyone has a right to, and Scott struggles to follow, trying to recall where she picked her handholds and copy them. By the time he claws his way to the top, she's already dozens of meters away, the ends of her staff glowing with energy, ready for combat. She moves effortlessly across the grassy landscape, clearly knowing every rock and gopher hole like the back of her hand.

 

He finally catches up with her as she stands over a carefully crafted pitfall, hidden in the middle of a game trail, and Scott inches forward, phaser at the ready. He drops his arm the moment he sees who is at the bottom. "Sulu? And Uhura?"

 

Sulu squints up at him, his face and arms smeared with copious amounts of dirt. His hands are wrapped in bandages that were surely clean before he went spelunking. "Hey, Mister Scott. Mind telling your friend to help us out?"

 

Jaylah glances back at Scott, her hard eyes questioning. "Yep, they're two of my crewmates," he tells her. "Lieutenants Hikaru Sulu and Nyota Uhura. This is Jaylah. Tell me you've got a rope or something," he adds to his favorite new alien friend.

 

She rolls her eyes, turns off the power to her staff, and sticks it down in the hole. "Grab, Nyoota Hura," she commands Uhura, who wastes no time in taking hold of the staff. Jaylah pulls her up and out with a bit of effort, setting her none-too-gently on the ground before going back to lift Sulu out as well. It takes a couple of tries, given the state of his hands.

 

"How many mates you have?" Jaylah demands, whirling on Scott, jabbing a finger at him accusingly.

 

Scott scratches his head. "Er... four hundred? Give or take."

 

Her eyes narrow at him, but before she can start asking more questions, Uhura breaks in first. "Have you seen anyone else yet?" she asks Scott.

 

He shakes his head regretfully. "Och, no. But we're working on it."

 

"We?" Sulu asks, raising his eyebrows. He looks distracted by something, but it's been a very trying few days, so it's understandable.

 

"Jaylah's, er, _house_ is the USS _Franklin_ ," Scott explains, gesturing for them to follow him and Jaylah back to home sweet home. "External comms should be up and running again in two hours, and then finding everyone should be a wee bit easier."

 

"The _Franklin_?" Uhura repeats, looking surprised. "They disappeared nearly a century ago. That would explain the distress signal, and why it's so weak."

 

"Aye," Scott agrees. "I left it running in case anyone was following it. Figured more than likely it'd be _Enterprise_ crew." He can feel more of the adrenaline-prompted tension seeping out of him the closer they get to the derelict _Franklin_ , soothing the troubled knot in the pit of his stomach, and dropping down into the ravine the second time around is a hell of a lot easier.

 

"That was a smart move," Sulu says in approval. Rather than simply jump down, he slides down the side of the ravine, kicking up a cloud of dust. "We wouldn't have taken that path, if we were headed straight to the _Enterprise_."

 

" _Enterprise_ is your house?" Jaylah demands, looking back over her shoulder at the wreck still smoldering in the distance, before taking refuge in the ravine as well.

 

"Aye, that she was," Scott answers, swallowing down a lump in his throat when he thinks of his beautiful lady in tatters.

 

Sulu visibly shudders as he steps through the _Franklin_ 's airlock in Jaylah's wake, and before Scott can follow, Uhura grabs his arm and pulls him aside. "Something strange is going on with his mutation," she says in a low voice, clearly not wanting Sulu to overhear. Or maybe it's Jaylah she's worried about. "Last night, something was compelling him to dig, to transplant himself, and I don't think it's stopped. Have you noticed anything unusual, Scotty?"

 

He frowns, and begins to deny it, but then a thought occurs. "Aye," he says slowly, reaching out to touch the armored plating on the outside of the _Franklin_ , feeling once again how easily he connects to her. "Technomancy's not an exact science... but I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to replace a deep-seated bond with another so quickly. Or strongly. It feels like I've been serving on the _Franklin_ for years, and it's been one bloody day. Less, even."

 

Uhura nods, her eyes dark with worry. "We need to find out how far it's spread. I'll give you a hand getting the comms up and running. The sooner, the better."

 

Scott smiles, but it's a grim one. "Thanks, lass. Between the four of us, we'll have her singing in no time."


	18. Ruins

For the sake of his shipmates, Chekov tries not to be nervous as they make their way through the woods. If he has no choice but to broadcast his feelings, he'd rather not burden them with his paranoia on top of their own. It's hard, though, after learning that something is lurking in the forest, preying on survivors from the _Enterprise_.

 

He holds his phaser close, and hopes that it won't be as inclined to attack a group instead of a single crewman.

 

"Anything?" he asks Giotto, more than once.

 

"Nothing hostile," is always the reply, and on two occasions, they actually meet up with more crewmen from the _Enterprise_. Nurse Chapel and Ensign Syl turn up around three kilometers into their hike, and Lieutenant Leslie literally pops up out of the ground just after they halt to check their bearings.

 

It feels good to see more of the crew coming together, and no one gives Chekov any trouble about the captain leaving him in charge, despite several of his crewmates outranking him.

 

The group is just preparing to get underway again when Hendorff's head whips to the right, his body language alert. "There's something over that way," he says.

 

"The creature?" Kyle asks, unholstering his phaser.

 

Hendorff shakes his head. "No, nothing alive. There's some kind of metal structure about five hundred meters away," he says, gesturing to the east. "It feels like it's half-buried, but it's big."

 

"We should inwestigate," Chekov decides after a moment's thought. It's what the captain would do. This could be the first sign that the planet's inhabited, and if they're going to be sharing territory with any natives, it'd be good to know sooner rather than later. "Please take point."

 

Despite the fear that some wild animal might lunge out of the bushes and kill them all, he finds himself actually rather curious about what might be out there. Leslie whistles as the mysterious metal object comes into view. "Now _that's_ interesting."

 

Sticking out of the side of a hill, mostly hidden by trees, is what was once an elaborate archway, wrought from some kind of silvery metal. The years have not been kind to it, corrosion overtaking most of the detailed carvings that once decorated it, and what little is visible bears no resemblance to any writing system Chekov is familiar with. Hinges indicate that there were doors present at one time, but they've long since disappeared, either stolen or salvaged, or perhaps rotted away into nothing.

 

Hendorff moves to the entrance and peers inside. "It goes pretty deep," he reports. "Looks like animals have used this place as a nest or something."

 

Chekov pauses for a moment while he considers what to do. This is worth investigating, but he doesn't want to send the entire group down, in case something happens. "Hendorff, Barrows, and I vill go inside. Everyone else, please stay here for now. Keep a lookout for the creature that the keptin varned us about."

 

They don't have a single technological light source between them. Fortunately, with Barrows' fire powers at their disposal, they don't need one. She holds a hand out in front of her, allowing the flame to blossom in her fingers, casting an orange glow around them as they cautiously step into the archway.

 

Whatever this facility is, it's been open to the elements for a long time. Dead leaves and dry dirt lie strewn across the floor and swept into the corners by the wind, and there's a stale stench that speaks to its use by various native animals in the recent past. There doesn't seem to be anything home at the moment though, thank goodness.

 

Chekov spots something that looks somewhat like a computer console and uses his palm to wipe off the dust. It's not powered, obviously, but there isn't much else that it might be. A series of buttons lie beneath the blank screen, carved with the same unfamiliar symbols on the archway. "If only Lieutenant Uhura vas here," he mutters to himself, and hopes that she's all right.

 

"There are paper records," Hendorff announces, digging sheets of hardcopy out of some kind of storage receptacle. He's careful to keep them away from Barrows, holding them up at a distance to get a better look at them without risking torching the things. "I can't read this, but it looks a hell of a lot like equations and chemical formulae."

 

Interested, Chekov moves closer to look at the papers himself. The formatting does resemble scientific research, although without understanding the language it's impossible to know for sure. "Bring them vith us. Maybe once we find someone from communications, they can help decipher them."

 

Barrows turns slowly in a circle, casting light on the entire room, a little bit at a time. It almost looks like a laboratory of some type, but there's an open doorway at the back of the room, and when they move to investigate, there are hallways that branch off and vanish into the darkness, deep below the hill. "Some kind of research facility?" she guesses.

 

"Could be," Chekov agrees. "Hendorff, how deep does this facility stretch?"

 

The security officer half-closes his eyes as he reaches out, ripples of magnetism causing small vibrations in the metal walls. "Two hundred meters, give or take. We could spend a long time exploring this place."

 

Barrows glances back toward the entrance. "We could, but the captain will wonder where we disappeared to. We should report back."

 

Chekov doesn't mind them voicing their opinions. Captain Kirk expects much the same from people under his command. "Agreed. Perhaps ve can mark the site to be wisible from the air somehow and return later." He doesn't want to consider the possibility that they may have a great deal of time to study these ruins, but he also can't just pretend that possibility doesn't exist. They are Starfleet, and this is what the mission calls for. "Ve vill stay for five more minutes," he decides. "Look for any more clues that might be helpful."

 

Five minutes isn't much time, but they use it well. An examination of the hallway to the right reveals a series of rooms that are unmistakably laboratories, strewn with unfamiliar scientific tools and several computer devices like the one in the lobby area.

 

"Whoever lived here, they were pretty advanced," Hendorff says, taking a closer look at a glass contraption full of liquid. "Looks like they left in a hurry. Nobody cleaned up these experiments."

 

"Or they all died," Barrows speculates. "It could be some kind of disaster that swept through, faster than they could react. Survival might have been a priority over locking down the lab properly."

 

"We should ask the keptin if he has seen any more signs of ciwilization," Chekov says, gesturing for them to follow him back out towards the surface. "Surely there should be more evidence than just one laboratory."

 

"I'll keep a lookout as we travel," Hendorff says, checking to make sure the papers he grabbed are safely stowed in his pack. "My range has increased several times since we landed."

 

"Thank you," Chekov tells him as the sunlight beckons them ahead, shining through the archway. It's a bit of a relief to be aboveground again, something he can't really hide from the rest of the crew, but to his gratitude no one says anything.

 

"Anything interesting?" Leslie asks as they emerge.

 

"Signs of some kind of advanced civilization," Barrows says, extinguishing the flames in her palm, a wisp of gray smoke curling up for an instant. "Nothing immediately helpful, but it could be important."

 

"No signs of trouble up here," Giotto reports. "We're ready to move out when you are."

 

Chekov nods. "Let's get moving."


	19. Suffocate

The farther they walk, the worse McCoy feels. Sure, the full body itching has mostly stopped, but that's because he's covered almost head to toe with smooth scales now, and aside from the webbing between his fingers and toes, his x-gene seems to be done with any more external modifications. But every breath he takes sears his lungs, and his gills spasm involuntarily, his body screaming at him to just get in the river already.

 

Spock's observant eyes miss nothing, watching him carefully when they stop for a break. "Doctor, what is your current condition?"

 

"Better than yours," McCoy grumbles, inspecting Spock's wound. There are no signs of infection, and though it's going to be a while before the first officer is a hundred percent, the laceration is healed enough that it's holding up reasonably well despite the necessary exercise. Nor is there any sign of internal hemorrhaging, and Spock's pulse is relatively strong under his fingertips. His blood pressure is a bit low, but that's what happens when you bleed out a few pints.

 

"I do not believe that to be the case," Spock protests. "Over the past two point four hours, your continued mutation has spread rapidly, and your respiratory patterns have changed significantly."

 

"Yeah, I _noticed_ , Spock." McCoy grimaces, his tricorder feeling clumsy in webbed hands. "But since I'm the only one here with a medical degree..."

 

"Ignoring your own condition is not advantageous in any way," Spock points out, as if McCoy hadn't even said anything. "You are becoming more piscine as time passes, and you are having trouble breathing. Logically, one must expect that your ability to process atmosphere may become compromised in favor of requiring submersion in oxygen-rich fluid."

 

"I _know_ that," McCoy snaps irritably, roughly shoving his tricorder in his pack. God, it's not like the Vulcan just had to come out and _say_ it. "I'm not gonna do anyone any good if I'm stuck in this godforsaken river."

 

"You may not have a choice."

 

Fuck, and that's the rub, isn't it? He can't deny it. McCoy glares at Spock for a moment, but the first officer just stares back impassively, and McCoy has to look away. "Where's it gonna end, Spock? You saw what Jim looked like, how deep this thing's gotten its claws into him. He was two shades shy of straight-up _feral_ for a second there. If I give in to this thing, who's to say the same won't happen to me?"

 

"It is unlikely you will exhibit the same behavior," Spock begins to say, but McCoy raises a hand and cuts him off before he can get into it.

 

"That's not what I mean and you know it. Instinct is a powerful force, and if I let myself get caught up in it, I might just end up with a hook in my cheek." McCoy will never admit it out loud, but the captain scared the shit out of him earlier, and not only because he's never seen Kirk kill anything that swiftly and brutally. _Eagles eat fish, right? That's fucked up, Leonard. Don't think about that._

 

Spock is quiet for a moment as he thinks about that. "I do not deny the strength of instinctual behavior. But fulfilling your physiological needs must take priority. And if the captain still has the strength to pull back from his instincts so readily, I do not believe you will have similar difficulty at present."

 

"You're a regular ray of sunshine, Spock." He is right, though. McCoy isn't going to be able to avoid the river forever, and he should have soaked his gills again an hour ago. "So what happens if I stop being able to breathe air, anyway? This river doesn't go straight to the _Enterprise_ and I doubt there's a convenient fishbowl you could lug around for me."

 

"I do not know. But if you cease being able to breathe anywhere else, you will die," Spock says simply.

 

McCoy sighs, annoyed. Why does the Vulcan have to be right all the time? It's stupid. "Spock, I-"

 

He's interrupted at the sound of his communicator chirping, something it hasn't done since just after landing. McCoy flips it open, not recognizing the source of the signal, but the voice that comes over the frequency is damn familiar. " _Uhura to_ Enterprise _crew, please come in._ "

 

"Hey Spock, it's your girlfriend," McCoy announces, glad for the distraction.

 

Spock looks distinctly relieved as well, their argument momentarily forgotten, and he takes the communicator in hand. "Spock here. We read you, Uhura."

 

" _Spock!_ " Her relief is immediately evident, even over a voice-only channel. " _Are you all right?_ "

 

"I am functioning adequately," Spock answers, and of course he ignores it when McCoy gives him the stink-eye for his creative manipulation of the truth. "Doctor McCoy is in my company as well. He too is... functioning adequately."

 

Well, now he feels like a dick. And _touché_ , Spock, seriously. Either McCoy has to admit that he's not doing as well as he thought, or he implies that Spock is absolutely fine, which he isn't. The doctor leans towards the communicator. "Hey, Uhura. Where the hell are you calling from?"

 

The voice that replies is _not_ Uhura's, but it is familiar, and welcome nonetheless. " _Ye won't believe it, doctor, but it's a Starfleet vessel. The USS_ Franklin _. Looks like it crashed here about a century ago. We just got comms up and running. Is there anyone else with ye?_ " Scott asks.

 

"No, but we've seen the captain," McCoy reports, deciding that they don't need to hear all the gory details right now. "And we're on our way to meet up with Chekov's group right now."

 

" _Everyone's pretty scattered,_ " Sulu's voice comes across the channel next. " _We were going pretty fast when we hit atmosphere. I'd be surprised if we manage to find everyone within a week._ "

 

"Is the _Franklin_ spaceworthy?" Spock asks.

 

Scott makes a rude noise. " _Och, no, not yet. But she will be eventually. I may need to put together a shopping list._ "

 

" _We'll work on getting transporters up next,_ " Uhura says, as Scott's voice deteriorates into muttering ship parts to himself in the background. " _Keep heading to join up with others; it'll be easier to find you all in a group._ "

 

"Will do," McCoy agrees. "And be careful. The captain says there's some kinda predator in the woods that likes to eat people." It's a good guess that it might be the thing that Spock felt watching them yesterday, but as he glances over at the Vulcan, he's suddenly not so sure.

 

Either way, his throat feels like it's on fire, and all this talking really isn't helping.

 

"Take care, Nyota," Spock adds quietly.

 

" _You too, Spock. See you soon._ "

 

Much as he hates to admit Spock was right, McCoy can't stand it any longer. He grits his teeth and wades into the river, its coolness refreshing against his new scales, and draws a deep breath through his gills. It feels so right, so natural, to simply want to stay under the surface where he belongs, and that bothers the _shit_ out of him.

 

Spock stands on the shore, hands clasped behind his back, although he's still favoring his side a fair bit. "Doctor, perhaps it would be in your best interest to swim the rest of the way to our destination," he suggests reasonably. "I do not require physical support at this time, and you will be in close proximity should that change. I can easily carry our supplies."

 

Unable to trust his voice above water, McCoy just raises his hand above the surface in the grumpiest thumbs-up he's ever given. _Damn you, Spock._


	20. Unnatural

Sulu hates the _Franklin_.

 

He can't really put his finger on the reason why. It's smaller than the _Enterprise_ and way out of date, but the design is at least familiar, and usually he _likes_ old vehicles and starships. Hell, once he even tracked down a collector with a private twentieth century helicopter collection so he could learn first-hand how to pilot a Huey, and that's _way_ more ancient than a hundred-year-old starship. And this is the most likely candidate for their ticket off this planet. There should be no reason for him to dislike the old ship.

 

And yet from the moment he stepped foot inside, his skin has felt like it's crawling, and it takes a good portion of his concentration not to simply run screaming out the door. Something's not _right_ here, and no one else seems to notice.

 

It's as strange as his inexplicable urge to dig a Sulu-sized hole in the ground. Which hasn't stopped, of course, because why the hell would that happen?

 

Now that comms are working again, Uhura has all but glued herself to the communications console on the bridge, establishing contact with their scattered crew and trying to pin down their locations. Scott has all but disappeared under the transporter control console, half-buried in the machine's guts, merrily banging away with a wrench. And the alien girl, Jaylah, is right in there with him.

 

Sulu's not an engineer. He knows the basics of how to fix the helm and a few other systems, but none of those are in disrepair and he doesn't want to risk screwing something up by meddling with electronics he doesn't understand. So it leaves him with nothing to do, really. Nothing but stand there and reflect on how much he really hates this ship.

 

Or rather, he realizes, he hates being _inside_ the ship.

 

"I'm gonna go stand watch," he announces at last, and he doesn't catch the concerned look that Uhura gives him as he turns toward the jammed access hatch. He feels oddly naked without his sword, a constant companion on every planetside mission he's taken in the last three years, and the phaser is a poor substitute. Still, at least it's a weapon.

 

His shoulders slump a little in relief as he emerges into the sunlight, the oppressive darkness of the ship falling away, forgotten. Standing out in the impact scar from the _Franklin_ 's century-old crash landing, suddenly the ship doesn't seem so bad from outside, cradled by the earth and half-hidden under healthy green vines that are slowly climbing across the wreck.

 

_If we don't yank her from the earth, she'd become a part of the landscape eventually,_ he thinks to himself. It feels strangely right, seeing the unnatural man-made lines of the starship slowly being reclaimed by nature, absorbed into a destiny for which she was never intended. It almost seems like a shame to have to disturb her well-earned rest, like digging up a grave.

 

He shakes his head and sets to climbing up the side of the ravine, instinctively finding handholds where roots protrude, knowing without looking which ones are sturdy enough to bear his weight. The earth almost seems to hum under his hands, a soothing drone, calling him to rest.

 

Sulu reaches the top and sits down, digging his fingers into the sparse grass in an effort to resist the compulsion, which seems stronger than ever. He feels strangely restless, like he's outgrown his skin and needs to reach out into the world, beyond the flesh.

 

_I have to figure this out._ He gives a brief glance around to make sure there's nothing sneaking up on him, then he closes his eyes, directing his thoughts inward, trying to analyze what's happening to him. But even as he recounts his symptoms, his odd thought patterns and behavior, the feel of the sunlight falling across his face is distracting in the extreme. It almost seems like the longer he stays outside the ship, the better he feels, surrounded by the soothing presence of the native plants.

 

"Hikaru, are you okay?"

 

Uhura's voice cuts through his concentration, and he opens his eyes to see her kneeling in front of him. The sun seems lower in the sky than the last time he looked, and he blinks hard, trying to shake the fuzziness from his thoughts. "Yeah, I'm fine," he says, a little confused.

 

"Are you sure?" she asks, and reaches out to take his hand between hers.

 

Sulu looks down, and is surprised to find that at some point since he came outside, he's apparently given in to the compulsion to dig. Where he once sat on flat ground, he's now kneeling in a hand-dug hole almost a foot deep, his hands throbbing from the effort of moving that much dirt. In the back of his mind, something that feels an awful lot like panic wells up. "I... don't remember doing this."

 

Her dark eyes are full of concern, but she squeezes his hand gently. "Come on, let's get you back inside," she suggests.

 

"All right," he agrees reluctantly, and tries to shift his weight to stand. His legs refuse to cooperate, and the small feeling of panic starts to escalate, as he realizes he can't so much as twitch below the knees. "I can't move," he says, only managing to keep the fear out of his voice with great effort.

 

Of course, Uhura isn't fooled. "Hang on, let me take a look." She gently sweeps away some of the dirt next to his legs, and her eyes widen in surprise. "...you've grown roots."

 

He looks down at his legs, aghast, and now that she's removed the topsoil he can see the woody, twisted roots growing straight out of his lower legs in hundreds of places, burrowing into the ground and trapping him there. Sulu's head whips up to stare at Uhura, dread rising as it sinks in that he is well and truly _stuck_ here. "Can you dig me out?" he asks, and now he _knows_ she can hear his fear. Something _really strange_ is happening to him, and at least some part of him is bizarrely _okay_ with this.

 

"I'll try." Uhura gives it a valiant effort, digging deep around a single root in an attempt to see how deep they've grown. But the more dirt she moves, the more they both realize that Sulu's roots have grown way too quickly to still only be at the surface. She sits back after a half hour of digging, defeated. "I'm sorry, I just can't find the end of it. To have a chance at freeing you, we'd have to cut them off."

 

"No!" The shout bursts from him before he even thinks about it, and it shocks him almost as much as it does her. "That's a, uh, bad idea," he says, trying to calm his panicking heart enough to at least discuss this rationally. "They're a part of me; I can feel them. You might as well chop off my legs if you're gonna do that."

 

Her gaze softens in sympathy, and she leans forward to hug him tightly, offering what little comfort she can. "We'll get you out of here. I promise you that."

 

Sulu nods, and doesn't believe a word of it.


	21. Attacked

About an hour after Chekov's team leave the ruins, a dead purple creature abruptly drops out of the sky in front of them. Barrows torches it out of startled reflex, and there's a familiar laugh from overhead as Captain Kirk drops to the ground, folding his wings against his back. "Getting started on cooking lunch already? Good thinking, Barrows."

 

The yeoman looks embarrassed, shaking smoke from her hands. Giotto immediately picks up on the captain's intent and begins setting up a temporary cooking fire, waving Barrows over to help start it.

 

Kirk can't really explain his uncommon good mood. By all rights, he should be mourning the loss of his ship, the loss of uncounted crew, and worrying about the possibility of them ever getting off this rock. But part of him is really enjoying the chance to be _free_ , to fly where he wants and hunt as instinct demands, and to bring back food for his family. It just feels right, somehow, in a way that can't possibly be natural. It should worry him, and he knows it.

 

He brushes that aside, vowing to deal with it later. They're still in a survival situation, and he needs to take care of his crew. "Report. Anything unusual happen while I was gone?" His sharp gaze flicks over the group, and he's rather satisfied to see that more of his lost crew have managed to find each other.

 

"We found an underground facility of some kind," Chekov says, and he's the only one Kirk doesn't catch staring at him. Small wonder why, though; he's still covered in octodeer blood. "Probably a laboratory."

 

"We found writing but none of us recognize it," Hendorff adds, pulling the papers out of his pack to show the captain. "Once we get to Lieutenant Uhura, we're hoping she'll be able to decipher it."

 

"Have you seen any buildings from the air, keptin?" Chekov asks. "Or any other signs of ciwilization?"

 

Kirk frowns a little as he contemplates that. He hadn't been looking for any, way more focused on finding food and water, almost to the exclusion of all else. Which, he realizes, is more proof that _something_ is messing with his state of mind, because that doesn't fit his Starfleet training at all. "I don't think so. But it's a big planet, and we've barely seen a percentage of it," he says, shaking off his suspicions for the time being. "I did find Spock and Doctor McCoy though, down by the river. You should be caught up to them before dark. I'm honestly really surprised that we've managed to get this many people together after only one day. I thought it'd take longer."

 

"Ve have a unique adwantage, keptin," Chekov suggests diplomatically. "Anyone in range can find me easily, and your mobility and higher perspective has helped find quite a few people. It is not enough to make up for long-range communications, but it is better than vandering around in the forest aimlessly."

 

"Yeah, you're not wrong there," Kirk agrees. As they've been speaking, Giotto and Barrows have built up a decent fire, and Chapel and Leslie are busy cutting up the meat in chunks light enough to be speared on sharp sticks. It's not going to be gourmet fare, but it's food, and that's what matters. The captain knows that better than anyone else here.

 

He's about to head over and give them a hand when his communicator beeps, echoed by the communicators of everyone else in the group. Kirk answers first, letting the rest of the group focus on preparing lunch. "Kirk here."

 

" _Captain, good to hear your voice,_ " Uhura says, and while she sounds pleased to hear from him, there's a good deal of stress and worry in her voice too. " _Are you all right?_ "

 

"Yeah, I'm fine," he replies. It's mostly true, and if she's run into at least one mutant crew member, she probably already knows there's something strange going on with overactive x-genes across the board. Either way, whatever's happening to him isn't life-threatening at the moment, so it's not worth mentioning. "I don't recognize this frequency. Where are you-"

 

Kirk is interrupted by a piercing scream, and every single person in sight grabs their phasers. "It's Ensign Syl," Hendorff shouts as he barrels into the bushes, Kirk and Leslie right on his heels.

 

Whatever grabbed her did it fast and silent. There are drag marks from her heels digging into the weeds, yanking her under cover just enough to get her out of sight. There's a strange hissing sound, like atmosphere venting out a hull breach, and Syl's scream cuts off abruptly.

 

Her body lies crumpled and twisted under the shade of a young sapling, the blue fabric of her survival uniform hanging limply off her bones. And crouched over her like a feral animal is the form of a man, clad only in tattered rags like his clothes are slowly rotting off his body. The man's head whips up at their approach, revealing wild dark eyes above an age-lined face, and through an untamed growth of beard, he bares sharp teeth at them, snarling. There is nothing sane in his eyes or posture, only the mannerisms of a savage beast.

 

Hendorff fires a stun shot at him, and the wild man ducks out of the way, rapidly retreating into the safety of denser forest. "Captain, do we-?"

 

"After him," Kirk orders before he can finish asking. There isn't enough space between the trees to fly here, so he folds his wings against his back and pursues on foot, Hendorff and Leslie at his side. It feels wrong to be _running_ after a target, his back itching fiercely, wanting to take off and get the drop on his prey from above.

 

The trail quickly becomes nearly impossible to follow. Whoever this feral man is, he knows the forest well, and leaves little sign of his passage. Having to push through dense branches and brush slows Kirk down, needing more room to account for his wings, and Leslie's smaller frame easily gives him the advantage here, letting him gain a lead on his shipmates.

 

It turns out to be a horrible mistake.

 

Nearly the moment he is separated from Kirk and Hendorff by a densely-tangled mass of fallen branches, they hear him fire his phaser... and then comes the hissing.

 

Kirk cranks his phaser power up and fires at the branches, unwilling to waste any more time. The dead tree nearly explodes as it vaporizes, and there's an inhuman cry as splinters lodge themselves in the wild man's body. He staggers back from Leslie, bleeding from small points on his face and arms, keening, eyes wide as he stares at Kirk, and Hendorff behind the captain.

 

Leslie isn't quite dead. But he looks like hell, cheeks hollow like he's been starving for weeks, gasping for breath. Kirk takes a few steps forward to stand over him, wings fluffed and arched in an instinctive threat display, leveling his phaser at the attacker. Even the new feathers on his head are standing on end. "One more move and I'll blast your head off," he snaps.

 

The feral man doesn't seem to understand, crouching down either in submission, or preparing to bolt. He doesn't speak at all, only guttural noises coming from his throat, and a hungry gaze keeps falling on Leslie as he looks back and forth between Kirk and his intended prey.

 

"I don't think he's in his right mind," Hendorff says, but he's not dropping his phaser either, still set to stun.

 

"I don't give a shit. He killed Syl, and Phillips, and tried to kill Leslie," Kirk snaps back, never taking his eyes off the wild man for a second. And that's when he sees it. Clinging to the rags hanging off the man's body is an old style Starfleet insignia badge. Kirk clenches his teeth, anger and instinct warring with his training, demanding that he take retribution for the loss of his crewmen, to remove the threat permanently. "Stun him and tie him up," he spits out, "before he gets away again."

 

This time, the wild man can't dodge the stun bolt, knocking him flat on his back, unconscious.

 

Fortunately, Starfleet survival gear includes a good deal of rope. Kirk cuts a length of a few feet and tosses it to Hendorff, who ties it tightly around the wild man's wrists, binding them behind his back. "I can carry him, but you'll have to help Leslie, sir," Hendorff says, hefting the dead weight of their prisoner over one shoulder in a fireman's carry.

 

Leslie is still gasping for breath, but there's relief and gratitude in those frightened eyes as his captain returns to his side. "Hey, let's get back to camp," Kirk says, pulling the lieutenant to his feet and draping his arm over the captain's shoulders. Leslie's legs are weak, like the attack drained all his muscle tone away, and he leans heavily on Kirk, only able to shuffle along. It'll have to do.

 

It takes them several minutes to find the clearing again, and Giotto nearly holds them at phaserpoint until he recognizes who is approaching. "Captain, is that...?"

 

"Yeah," Kirk grunts, easing Leslie down to the ground. Chapel appears at his side almost out of nowhere, medical kit at the ready, scanning him with her tricorder. The captain turns away, satisfied that he's in the best possible hands for the moment, and glares at their prisoner. "That's the bastard who did this."

 

Hendorff drops the unconscious wild man like a sack of rocks, several yards away from the fire. "He's not from the _Enterprise_. Who the hell is he?"

 

"I don't know, but his clothes say Starfleet," Kirk says coldly, and abruptly remembers what he was doing before the man attacked. _Shit. Uhura must be worried._ "Keep an eye on him," he orders Giotto and Hendorff, and stalks over to the other side of camp, a little afraid of what he might try to do to the prisoner if he has to look at him any longer.

 

Uhura answers the comm call immediately. " _Captain, what happened?_ "

 

"Long story," he says gruffly. "I'll explain later. Where the hell are you calling from?"

 

" _That's a long story too,_ " she says, and begins to report.


	22. Rendezvous

Spock has little trouble climbing the winding path up the side of the canyon. He emerges into lengthening evening shadows, and as he stands and listens, his more acute Vulcan ears pick up the sounds of multiple footsteps approaching from the south, somewhere past the edge of the forest a half mile away. There is also a faint ripple of emotion that grows stronger every minute - tiredness after a long day's walk, curiosity regarding a mystery of some nature, grief at the loss of a comrade.

 

He detects no other sounds of movement, save for small native animal life, so he takes a seat on the ground and waits. It is logical to wait for the approaching group, rather than expend his own energy while still recovering from blood loss.

 

He does not have to wait long. Twenty minutes pass, and Chekov's convoy emerges from the shelter of the trees. "Commander!" Giotto calls out, the first to notice Spock's presence.

 

Spock inclines his head slightly, and casts his gaze over the group. Lieutenant Kyle and Nurse Chapel are aiding Lieutenant Leslie in walking, indicating that he is injured, perhaps severely. And there is an unknown person being carried by security officer Hendorff, hands crudely bound behind their back. Puzzling indeed.

 

"Greetings," he says to them as they draw near, and he pulls himself to his feet. "Are you in need of medical attention?" he asks them as a whole.

 

"Leslie needs more help than I can give," Chapel reports, and she and Kyle ease the wounded man to the ground. Spock can see no obvious visible injuries to the officer, but he does not appear well, unable to stand under his own power. "Where's Doctor McCoy? The captain said he was with you."

 

"He is in the river below," Spock replies. "I assume that you know of the unusual effect this planet is inducing in mutants?"

 

There are nods all around, and Chekov's brow furrows, projecting worry. "He cannot stay out of the vater?" he asks.

 

"Nearly so. It is to his benefit to remain submerged when possible. Doing otherwise has become detrimental to his health. It was logical to allow him to remain, rather than accompany me away from a water source." Spock clasps his hands behind his back, considering their options. "There are numerous caves along the canyon interior. It would be wise to take shelter there overnight."

 

"Better than staying up a tree," Hendorff mutters, low enough that it's unlikely anyone but Spock heard him. "Is there somewhere we can secure the prisoner? I don't think he should even be near any of us."

 

Spock raises an eyebrow. "Explain."

 

"He killed Ensign Syl," Chekov answers, and of all the emotions he is emitting right now, grief is foremost. "He tried to kill Leslie, but Hendorff and the keptin stopped him before he could finish."

 

"It's some kind of energy drain ability," Hendorff adds. "I don't know if it's his power going out of control or what, but he's not sane, and I don't want him getting the drop on us in our sleep. I've had to stun him every thirty minutes to make sure he's not gonna do the same to me."

 

 _Fascinating. Perhaps the predator that the captain mentioned was not an animal at all._ "It should be possible to find a suitable location in which to imprison him temporarily," Spock agrees. "What is the captain's current location?" Kirk's dynamic presence is always impossible to ignore, and the lack of it is equally blatantly obvious.

 

"He took off," Chekov says, pointing vaguely at the sky. "He did not say vhere he vas going, but he has spent a _lot_ of time flying, sir. I don't think he is quite himself." The young officer cannot restrain the faint tickle of worry from broadcasting outward, and Spock cannot entirely disagree with the feeling.

 

"So I have seen," Spock replies simply, deciding not to mention specifics. The captain had seemed rather embarrassed at his savage hunting behavior, and Spock will not be the one to give the crew cause to doubt in their commanding officer. "Let us proceed down into the canyon. The captain will be able to locate us when he is ready to return."

 

Over the past day, Doctor McCoy's condition has become severe enough that he has spent a collective total of three point six eight hours out of the water, most of which occurred far earlier in the day. But at the sight of a patient in need, accompanied by the late _Enterprise_ 's head nurse, he pulls himself out of the water and sloshes over to assess Leslie's condition, not bothering to dry himself. Privately, Spock thinks that it will do the patient little good to have his doctor dripping water all over him, but the lieutenant's condition appears grave enough that such a concern is a petty one.

 

He is, however, gratified to note that aside from a few startled looks at the chief medical officer's highly mutated state, the surviving crew waste no time staring uselessly. Instead, Chekov and Giotto go about the task of finding a suitable site to camp for the night, and Kyle and Hendorff search for a convenient way to contain the prisoner, who lies insensate under Barrows' guard. Despite the great losses they have suffered and the stress they are surely experiencing, they are following their training to a satisfactory degree, and Spock makes a mental note to officially commend them for their exemplary performance.

 

It is nearly dusk by the time the sound of beating wings herald Kirk's return, and the captain glides down into the canyon to join his crew. His jacket is still stained with brown streaks of dried blood, but now they are accompanied by black soot smudges, darkening his face and polluting the color of his feathers as well. There's a grim expression in his hard yellow eyes, and he throws a pair of Starfleet-issue manacles to Giotto. "That'll hold better than rope."

 

From the river shallows, McCoy scowls at Kirk, and jabs a finger in his direction. "Where the hell have you been?"

 

"The _Enterprise_ ," Kirk answers flatly, and idle conversation ceases. "What's left of her. There's enough of her still intact that we might be able to scavenge limited supplies, but she's... a real mess. I only got as deep as Deck Three before I turned back."

 

McCoy looks stricken by the answer, but rallies quickly. "Sorry, Jim."

 

"Thanks." The captain doesn't smile. If Spock didn't know better, he might suspect that Kirk has been taking lessons in emotional control from a Vulcan. "The interior is unstable so it's going to be dangerous. Volunteers only. Once Scotty has the _Franklin_ 's transporters working, I'll lead a team to bring back what we can. Food, clothing, medical supplies, and any spare parts that Scotty needs will be top priority. Bones, put together a wish list. I can't promise anything, even if Sickbay is still there, but I need to know what's needed most."

 

The doctor nods, his all-encompassing gray scales looking a bit paler at the moment. "Sure thing."

 

Kirk's gaze flicks to Spock, who returns his gaze evenly. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, he turns back to address the group as a whole. "Night seems to be about nine hours long here, so we'll do a three hour rotating watch. I want one person watching camp and another with eyes on the prisoner at all times. Spock, you good to take a turn?"

 

"I am functioning adequately, captain," Spock affirms. "I can perform the first watch."

 

"I'll take first watch with him," Hendorff volunteers. "I don't think I'll be able to sleep knowing that bastard's nearby anyway," he adds, jerking his head toward the prisoner, who is currently stowed in a sheltered alcove ten meters from the main camp.

 

The captain nods, accepting their offer. "Giotto and Chekov, you're on second watch. Barrows and I'll take third. Stay vigilant. There's no guarantee that our prisoner is the only threat out there, and I'm tired of all these nasty surprises."

 

"A reasonable precaution," Spock agrees. He hesitates for a moment, then lowers his voice so that the others cannot easily overhear. "Captain. I have continued to sense a presence observing us ever since we landed here. I do not believe we are being hunted, but we _are_ still under observation by an unknown being."

 

Kirk looks at him sharply, and the altered pigmentation of his eyes is slightly unnerving in the low light, even to a Vulcan. Spock has a fleeting impression of staring down a large bird of prey that is fully focused on him alone. "Can you be more specific?"

 

"I cannot," Spock apologizes. "It is unrelated to the man you have taken captive, but I do not have any more information at this time."

 

"Dammit." Kirk's expression hardens, but he nods slightly. "Thanks for the heads up. As soon as you know anything else, let me know immediately."

 

"Yes, captain."


	23. Friends

"Sulu's not coming back inside."

 

Scott pauses and pulls himself out from underneath the transporter console, casting a confused look up at Uhura. "Come again, lass?"

 

"He's rooted to the ground," Uhura says, and he can tell from the look on her face that it isn't hyperbole. "I can't dig him up."

 

Well, that's a problem. Scott had been counting on Sulu's help getting the helm up to snuff, once the flight systems are operational again. But if he's literally stuck in the dirt outside, that's gonna be a wee bit difficult. Belatedly, it occurs to him that Sulu might be a mite freaked out by this development, on top of that.

 

But before he can ask if the lad's holding up all right, Jaylah speaks up. "I see this before."

 

He nearly drops his spanner, head whipping around to look at her. "Ye have? When?"

 

She looks back at him placidly, no comprehension in those alien eyes as to why this comes as a surprise. "Others of your kind who fall from the sky. Not many. The living become different. One became tree, six days after falling."

 

"They _became_ a tree?" Uhura repeats, frowning in worry. "It goes that far? Can you show us this tree?"

 

But Jaylah shakes her head. "Great power from the sky burned her in storm. Nothing left now."

 

_Hit by lightning,_ Scott translates. Her turns of phrase are fairly rudimentary still, but given that she apparently learned English through a crashed ancient starship's databanks, she's doing great. And don't think he hasn't noticed that she's been improving since she had someone else to speak with.

 

"That fits what I've heard from the survivors I've reached," Uhura says. "Carriers and non-humans don't seem to be affected, but every mutant who's been in contact has reported continued mutation."

 

"All the more reason to get off this rock and back to civilization," Scott replies, craning his neck up to look into the guts of the transporter console. His modifications are almost done, but there's no real way to be sure he's done it right before testing it out, not even with technomancy. These old cargo transporters were never intended to transport people, though it was done out of necessity on occasion. Modern safety protocols will help, but only to a point, if it's not configured correctly.

 

Jaylah nods in fierce agreement. "You make my house fly and we leave this place forever."

 

"There will be others like Sulu. We can't just abandon them here." Uhura's tone is a little harsh, but Scott totally gets it. It breaks his heart to think of leaving anyone behind.

 

"There isn't enough room or life support to take everyone in one go," Scott tells her, laying out the facts. "A starship this size can support a hundred people, tops. Even if we lost a quarter of our crew in the attack, that's still three hundred odd people. More'n likely, we'll have to send a single group to _Yorktown_ to get help. Sulu won't be the only one stuck here for a wee bit."

 

Jaylah makes an impatient noise. "All talk! We must stop the bees or more will fall. No one can leave."

 

"Aye," he agrees reluctantly, plugging in the last modification and closing up the transporter console. "Even if the _Franklin_ was miraculously fixed up overnight, we still couldn't leave without sorting that out first. And any rescue ships will be shot down, too. Once I get more of engineering here, we'll put our heads together and see if we can come up with something. Should be able to start beaming people over tomorrow."

 

"Why not tonight?" Uhura asks. "You look like you're done."

 

"Aye, but I'll need to run a diagnostic or two before I put the transporter to work, unless ye want to risk people getting all spliced or jellied," Scott answers, as kindly as he can. "Besides, I'm knackered and if I'm not mistaken, it's close to sundown. We cannae just leave poor Mister Sulu out there alone all night, can we?"

 

Uhura smiles slightly, gratitude in her eyes. "No, we can't."

 

Scott returns the smile. "Go on ahead, lass. Jaylah and I will clean up and join you topside when we're done."

 

Even as he speaks, Jaylah is already gathering up spanners and widgets, throwing them into an ancient toolbox. She waits until Uhura leaves the room to speak up. "He can not be saved. No one can. If he can not move, Krall eat him."

 

"We won't let that happen," Scott protests. "Look, I know you've spent a long time here, surviving on your own. You're an amazing, strong young lady. But that's not how Starfleet operates. We don't leave our people to die, and we don't leave them defenseless. He's our crewmate, and our friend."

 

She hesitates, and for a moment, Scott is struck anew by the realization of how _young_ she is. And her face may be an alien one, but there's no mistaking that look of vulnerability, forged from years of having no one to rely on but herself. It makes his heart hurt to think that she's never had friends that would risk their lives for her, nor friends of any kind.

 

Taking a risk, he reaches out and pats her arm. "You're with us now, Jaylah. You don't have to face Krall alone anymore either. He comes after you, he's gonna get a right arse-kicking."

 

She looks a bit stunned by the promise, and a bit wary, like she isn't sure what he wants in return. And Scott wonders how many other crash survivors have tried to con her out of her resources over the years, coming to her with a kind face and a phaser hidden behind their back. So rather than push the point, he just turns to cleaning up, determined to show her their sincerity by simply letting her watch how Starfleet treats their friends.

 

Jaylah is still giving him a thoughtful look as they emerge from the _Franklin_ , and join Sulu and Uhura up on the ridge. Poor Sulu's legs are half-buried in the ground, roots tying him down, and he's looking a little green. But he puts on a brave smile and gratefully accepts a ration bar. "Hey, are we all camping out tonight?"

 

"Sure, why not?" Scott agrees. "Can't leave ye up here all by your lonesome." It's going to be a bit unnerving, sleeping out under the stars away from the safe enclosure of a ship, but he can deal with it. For Sulu's sake.

 

And, in another way, for Jaylah's.


	24. Compromised

_I guess the weather couldn't hold out forever,_ Kirk grumbles to himself, early the next morning. The sky has lightened over the last two hours of his watch, but the rising sun is hidden behind dull gray clouds, and the wind carries the scent of approaching rain.

 

He eyes the prisoner, satisfied that repeated stunnings have kept him under all night. It's probably not medically advised, but Kirk just can't bring himself to care. Letting the feral man awaken before they can properly contain him endangers everyone, and that aside, he's killed some of Kirk's crew. His own people come first. Period.

 

Kirk raises his voice slightly so it'll carry to Barrows. "Wake the others. We've got rain coming, and if there's any kind of flash flooding with it, you're all sitting ducks."

 

"Aye, sir."

 

As the yeoman sets about rousing the rest of the camp, Kirk's communicator beeps, showing the _Franklin_ 's frequency. "Kirk here. Good morning, Scotty."

 

" _Morning, sir. How'd you know it was me?_ "

 

Despite the circumstances, Kirk can't help a small smile from touching his lips. "I know you can't sleep if you've got a problem to fix. How's the transporter looking?"

 

" _Can't be sure until I test it, sir, but I'd bet my career on it being right. Are you all ready to come over to our little ship here?_ "

 

Kirk glances over the camp. True to training, they're getting up and around, without any grumbling about wanting more sleep. All except Leslie, obviously, who is expected only to be still and rest. "Give us a few minutes, Scotty. Everyone's just getting up. Actually... is the _Franklin_ 's brig operational? We have a prisoner to secure."

 

The question has clearly thrown Scott a little, because there's a pause before he replies. " _Ah, no captain, brigs weren't standard until after the_ Franklin _'s construction. She doesn't actually have one. But if you give me five minutes, I can rig up an exterior-only lock on crew quarters._ "

 

"That'll have to work." _No brig... damn. Someone wasn't thinking ahead._ Kirk grimaces, unhappy with the whole situation. It's not ideal, but at least it's something. "She's got a medbay though, right? We've got wounded."

 

" _Aye, sir._ " Scott hesitates a moment. " _Will Doctor McCoy be needin' a water tank? I'm afraid the_ Franklin _doesn't have a swimming pool. She's far too small for that._ "

 

"Yeah, actually, he will. Dammit."

 

" _I'll get something sorted out,_ " Scott promises. " _Stand by._ "

 

Kirk glares at the unconscious prisoner, because the man is right in front of him and is an easy target. This whole mission has gone to complete _shit_. The _Enterprise_ will never fly again, his crew are scattered to the four winds, and this _asshole_ is killing what's left of them.

 

He's not even aware that he's moved until he feels Spock's hand on his shoulder. "Captain, are you all right?"

 

Kirk blinks, coming back to himself. He's standing over the prisoner, wings mantled, fists clenched, ready to tear into the helpless man with his bare hands. Confusion drowns out his anger, and he consciously takes a step back, unable to stop his wings from bristling, and he rubs a hand over his face, grounding himself in the scratch of two day old stubble against his palm. "I don't know, Spock. I really don't."

 

"If you are emotionally compromised-"

 

Kirk barks out a harsh, bitter laugh, cutting his first officer off. "We lost our ship, we're stranded on an uncharted planet, and our mutations are all going _bonkers_. I dare you to find a single crewman who is _not_ emotionally compromised right now." He turns fierce eyes on Spock, who doesn't flinch away. "And don't give me any of that stoic Vulcan crap. I know you better than that."

 

Spock doesn't argue; he just inclines his head slightly, conceding the point. A low groan from the prisoner draws their attention. "He is regaining consciousness. Perhaps it would be wise to allow him to do so, so that we may assess his cognitive state," Spock suggests.

 

Kirk hates the idea, but the wild man is securely cuffed and they've all got phasers. "Nobody gets within twenty feet of him," he orders, backing up the requisite distance, and raises his voice. "Giotto! Get over here. I need you."

 

Giotto looks a bit startled by the sudden summons, but he dutifully obeys, jogging over to his captain's side. "Yes, sir?"

 

Kirk tilts his head towards the prisoner. "He's waking up. I need you to get what you can out of him. I'd have Spock do it, but he'd have to touch the bastard, and I'm not risking his life." He glances over at his first officer. "You and I will keep him at phaserpoint. If he even tries to run or do that... vampire thing, stun his ass."

 

The wild man twitches as he fights his way to consciousness, sluggish after multiple rounds of stun blasts. Dark eyes flutter open, then slam wide as he notices he is trapped and surrounded. He lets out an inarticulate cry, struggling futilely against the restraints enclosing his wrists.

 

Giotto frowns, touching a finger to the side of his own head as he concentrates. "It's hard to make out, captain. I can tell that he's hungry to the point where he feels he's starving, and he recognizes our kind of technology, but he's not thinking in words. It's all impressions and images. It's almost like he hasn't used language in so long, he's forgotten how to, even in his own head."

 

Kirk frowns deeply, his eagle-like gaze trained on the prisoner, who is staring back at him, chest heaving with deep, ragged breaths. "Nothing else? Not even a name?"

 

"No, sir. But he is very interested in you for some reason. Like he thinks you're a kindred spirit of some kind."

 

The words are like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head, and Kirk inhales sharply, taking an involuntary step back, nausea churning in his gut as unexpected memories surge to the forefront of his mind. Giotto turns an alarmed look on him, unable to avoid hearing his captain's thoughts. "Sir, what...?"

 

"Not now," Kirk rasps out, trying to find his composure. "You won't get any more out of him like this." His finger squeezes the trigger and the blue stun bolts leaps from the end of his phaser, knocking out the wild man again. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. "Scotty's going to beam us over to the _Franklin_ in a few minutes. Once we're there, it's your job to secure the prisoner. Understood?"

 

"Aye, sir." Giotto looks disturbed, but he's loyal enough to obey without pressing the captain further.

 

Spock's expression doesn't quite hide his concern when he looks at the captain. "Captain, you are not well."

 

"I'm fine, Spock," Kirk denies immediately, seeking refuge in the stoic persona of a Starfleet captain, unwilling to bare this part of himself to his crew, nor his friends. Not yet. "It's just old memories."

 

He turns away and strides towards the rest of the camp, ignoring that burning Vulcan gaze following him every step of the way.


	25. Consolidation

If there's one thing that Scott has picked up from his years on the _Enterprise_ , it's the skills and resourcefulness required to improvise at the drop of a hat, even for bizarre problems he'd never have any right to expect. Having to jury-rig an aquarium on a hundred-year-old starship wasn't really something he'd ever foreseen himself having to do, and yet here he is, digging through the ship's cargo bay to find anything useful for that exact purpose.

 

Never in his life did he think he'd be cursing a starship for _not_ having a large open body of water on her.

 

Fortunately, he doesn't have to search alone. "Jaylah, can ye give me a hand?" he calls out.

 

It only takes a minute before Jaylah appears, looking only slightly rumpled from sleep. "You need my hands?" she asks, sounding a little puzzled.

 

"Aye," Scott agrees. "Doctor McCoy's got this thing where he breathes water. We need to make a place for him to stay. Can you help me find something man-sized that we can fill with water?"

 

Jaylah blinks, and tilts her head back, staring at him. "There is water nearby, now. Not far to walk."

 

"...really? What, like a pond? Never mind, just show me." He starts to follow, then remembers Kirk is waiting for his transmission, and he quickly jogs back to the _Franklin_ 's transmitter. "Ah, cap'n, Jaylah here's just told me there's some kind of body of water nearby. I'm going to check it out and if everything's a-okay, I'll have ye all beamed over in a jiffy."

 

" _Acknowledged, Scotty,_ " Kirk replies, and there's a strange note in his voice but Scott doesn't have the chance to ask if he's all right. " _Looks like we're going to get rained on, so we'll be underway shortly. Call me when you've got something. Kirk out._ "

 

Jaylah stands in the doorway, hands on her hips. "Come," she commands him, and draws a patchwork hood over her head as she steps outside.

 

Scott immediately realizes why as he follows suit, stepping out into a slightly chilly drizzle. Without any similar protection from the elements, he's just going to have to put up with it, and he grimaces at the thought, wanting to just get this over with and get back inside where it's nice and dry.

 

Then he feels a pang of guilt when he remembers that Sulu is stuck out in the open. He's not going to be able to take shelter from the weather. "You all right up there, laddie?" he calls up to the top of the ravine, blinking droplets of rain away from his eyes.

 

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sulu calls back, and he doesn't actually sound as stressed about it as Scott was expecting. Just a hint of irony showing through in his voice. "It's a little cold, but plants like being wet."

 

Scott shakes his head in mild disbelief, but hey, at least Sulu isn't suffering like he thought. Not that the helmsman is admitting, anyway. "Sit tight. We'll bring ye some hot coffee the moment I find some."

 

"I'll hold you to that," Sulu calls back.

 

"Come, Montgomery Scotty," Jaylah repeats, a little more impatient than she was a minute ago. She sets off down the ravine, her boots squishing deep footprints into fresh mud as she leads him farther away from the _Franklin_ , until the ground slopes up and they emerge next to a little oasis. A few trees cast shade over the small pond, and water plants are abundant around the shoreline. It looks deep enough to be tolerable, though probably not comfortable.

 

"Ach, I hope there aren't too many beasties in there," Scott says, peering at the water's surface as if he'd been blessed with extrasensory sight. The rain is causing way too many ripples to see anything except choppy waves.

 

Jaylah's expression brightens a little. "There are little water animals," she says, excited to share this knowledge with her new friend. "I catch them with small traps to eat them."

 

"Really?" Scott wonders if she means fish, or something a bit less typical like water rats or something. "Anything dangerous? To people, I mean."

 

She shrugs. "I never see danger from them. But I do not swim with them," she adds with a grin.

 

"Right." Scott clears his throat and looks over the pond again. McCoy likely won't be happy with it, but the entire crew isn't going to fit in the _Franklin_ comfortably anyway. And nearby, the ground is even enough that they may be able to set up temporary shelters for the _Enterprise_ 's displaced personnel. Perhaps some kind of medical triage area? Scott will be surprised if it turns out nobody needs medical attention after all this nonsense.

 

"Great work, Jaylah," he praises her, and she ducks her head slightly, trying to shyly hide a smile. "We'll see how much ol' Doc McCoy complains about it, but it's better than digging a hole outside and hoping it fills with water all by itself." He allows himself a dramatic shiver, and sends out a mental thank-you to whoever decided the survival uniforms should be water-resistant, because he'd be a mite colder without that. "Let's get back to home sweet home, shall we?"

 

Back inside the shelter of the _Franklin_ , Scott can't help a twinge of nervousness. Field testing modifications is always a bit nerve-wracking, especially when there's a possibility someone might get hurt. And there have been some truly _horrific_ accidents involving transporters before. He clears his throat and opens a communications channel. "Captain, we're ready to beam your party aboard, whenever you're ready, sir."

 

" _Good to hear, Scotty. Lock onto my signal and beam me over first._ "

 

Scott wants to protest, but good God, _no one_ can convince Captain Kirk otherwise once he has his mind set on something. And if there's one rule the captain holds sacred, it's that he will _never_ ask his crew to do something that he himself isn't willing to. They've all known this ever since he sacrificed himself to save them all, and they love him all the more for it.

 

That doesn't make it any less disturbing when Scott is the one with his fingers on the button that might turn his commanding officer into a puddle of goo, naturally.

 

"All right, cap'n. Brace yourself." Scott grimaces, crossing his fingers, and throws the switch.

 

The old cargo transporter hums to life, and a soft white patch of light springs forth out of nothing, quickly expanding into the size and shape of one Captain James T. Kirk. Scott breathes out a sigh of relief as the captain materializes in one piece, with all of his bits where they're supposed to... wait, no. There's a surge of panic in his chest as he meets Kirk's fierce _yellow_ eyes, not blue, and a golden feathery crest has decided to take up residence on his head instead blond hair. "Captain, _please_ tell me that was there already," he babbles, gesturing frantically at Kirk.

 

Kirk sighs and runs a hand across the top of his head. "Unfortunately, yes. Looks like your mods work just fine."

 

If Scott had long enough hair to pull out, he'd be doing it now. "Oh my _God_ , this is gonna be a bloody nightmare. I dinnae know what everyone's supposed to _look_ like anymore!"

 

"It'll be fine," Kirk says, stepping off the transporter pad, giving his wings a customary shake to align his feathers. "Start bringing everyone else over." He pauses as he notices Jaylah leaning up against the wall, watching him. "You must be Jaylah. I'm Captain James T. Kirk."

 

Jaylah looks him over, and she looks especially interested in his wings. "Hello, James Tee."

 

Behind Kirk, Scott begins beaming over the rest of the riverside group, a few at a time. Chapel, a very scaly and sopping wet McCoy, and a worse-for-the-wear Leslie appear, and the two medics drag the lieutenant off the transporter pad. True to form, with a patient to fuss over, McCoy barely grumbles about being beamed over with a transporter very much not meant for people, though Scott is sure it's coming later.

 

Scott brings over the next group. Spock, Chekov, Barrows, and Kyle all materialize in one piece, looking the same as they always have, although Barrows seems to be smoking slightly. Chekov gives Scott a grateful smile, patting him on the arm in thanks as they clear the pad.

 

Time for the last group. Scott throws the switch, beaming over Giotto, Hendorff, and someone that he doesn't recognize. An unconscious human, arms secured behind his back with Starfleet-issue cuffs, who oddly looks like he's spent ages out in the elements. The prisoner that Kirk mentioned, he presumes.

 

The engineer is about to step forward and direct them toward the makeshift brig he's set up in crew quarters, but Jaylah abruptly pushes away from the wall and grabs her staff, letting loose with a warning cry. "You bring Krall into my house!"

 

Kirk throws Scott a befuddled look, and steps between the alien girl and his people, not sure what exactly her issue is. "What the hell is Krall?"

 

Jaylah bares her teeth. " _He_ is," she says, gesturing angrily toward the prisoner. "That _animal_ eat all of us! We kill him _now_. Or we all die."


	26. Disagreement

For a long moment, nobody moves. Kirk stares at Jaylah, his wings flared to block the prisoner from her sight, and he can see the fear and anger in her alien eyes. "Look," he says slowly, "I don't know what this man did to you-"

 

"He eat my _family_ ," she hisses, her amber eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "He hunt me for years. Every day I watch for him, and think maybe today he catch me. He is Krall. You catch _him_. Kill him!"

 

Kirk shakes his head, drawing himself up to his full height. "I can't do that," he says, injecting every ounce of his command into his tone of voice. "He... ate some of my crew, too," he adds, deliberately not looking at poor Leslie, laid out on the floor nearby with McCoy and Chapel both looking after him. "But he's Starfleet, and we need to know who he is, and _why_ he did this."

 

Now some of his crew are staring at him too. "Who the hell cares why he did it?" McCoy shouts, his voice hoarse. "Like he's gonna have a good reason or something?"

 

 _Shit, Bones, don't ask me that._ Kirk forces himself to take a deep breath and let it out, slowly. Now's not the time for _that_ discussion; it never is. "We don't know how long he's been here, but he's obviously been affected by whatever is affecting _us_ , and it's not just physical. If nothing else, it's important to find out what long-term exposure does to mutants, unless you want to risk losing your minds too."

 

Not surprisingly, it's Spock who comes to his defense. "The captain is correct. Further study is required, and this 'Krall' may be the only example of prolonged mutation we will encounter. It would be to our detriment to discard a potentially valuable source of information. It is also a morally reprehensible action to execute a prisoner, even were it not against Starfleet regulations."

 

"Besides," Kirk adds, "you can always kill him later."

 

Jaylah hisses through her teeth, glaring at him. "You make mistake, letting him live. This is _my_ house. He does _not_ live here. I let you keep him three days. Then, I kill him." She doesn't wait for his reply, just turns and stalks out of the room, shaking in anger.

 

Kirk just watches her go, and to his surprise, Scott follows her. "Scotty?" he calls out.

 

Scott shakes his head. "She needs a friendly face around, captain. She's been surviving alone for a long time." Then he disappears into the cramped hallways of the ship.

 

Kirk folds his wings against his back, but doesn't relax his posture. He needs to be the Captain right now, for his own sake, as well as his crew. "Giotto, Hendorff, get... 'Krall' secured." It's not the prisoner's real name, he feels, but it's better than just 'that bastard.' "Scotty set up an exterior lock on crew quarters for him. Leave him cuffed and never, ever be alone in the room with him."

 

"Aye, sir."

 

Kirk turns his attention to McCoy and Chapel. "How's Leslie doing?"

 

"Not good, Jim," McCoy rasps out. "He needs a real hospital, and God knows there aren't gonna be any just down the road."

 

 _Dammit._ He expected that, but it's no less hard to hear it. "Do what you can for him."

 

"Captain," Spock begins, "may I ask-"

 

Kirk can guess what's coming, and he cuts him off immediately. "No, Mister Spock, you may not. Start going through the ship's logs. They might have more data about those ships that shot us down than we were able to get. Chekov, Barrows, secure a perimeter. Kyle, get on the transporter and start bringing in more crew. We don't have enough supplies for everyone yet so prioritize anyone in need of medical attention. Everyone else can wait."

 

"Aye keptin, but vhat vill you be doing?" Chekov asks.

 

Damn good question. He's already delegated the most important tasks to those most able to handle it. So what's left for the captain, once the orders are given? He shrugs, the weight of his wings shifting on his back. "Aerial survey. We need the lay of the land, and I need to know where we are in relation to the _Enterprise_. Might take advantage of the opportunity to do some hunting. We can't rely on being able to scavenge enough supplies from the _Enterprise_ to feed everybody."

 

McCoy frowns up at him. "Jim, are you sure that's the best idea? If this x-gene thing is affecting you mentally, giving it what it wants might not be the best move."

 

"Someone needs to do it, Bones. I'm best suited for the job, unless it turns out you've got wings I didn't know about." He can't deny that McCoy has a point though. He _has_ been feeling very unlike himself since the crash, since his mutation began asserting itself so aggressively. But he also knows that he's felt this exact way before, eighteen years ago, on a planet he can never seem to escape from, the memories clinging to him ever since, staining his soul. And how much of _that_ was him sublimating the mutation that he cut out of himself... well, he's never had the chance to find out.

 

McCoy frowns, and though he doesn't say it, Kirk can tell what he's thinking. _Yeah, Bones, I don't want to end up like Krall either but he's been like this for years, apparently. We have time. I hope._ Out loud, he says, "I'll be back within three hours. You have your orders."

 

"Jim..."

 

Kirk turns away, following the scent of fresh air to the propped-open airlock. He knows he can't keep running, can't keep putting this off. And yes, he is hiding behind his duty to his people. In as much as his chosen mission is a legitimate need, it's also an excuse. He'd never wanted to face a survival scenario like this ever again. And after what Giotto said Krall was thinking... well. He just needs five damn minutes to get his thoughts straight.

 

He steps out the door and into the rain, spreading his wings.


	27. Boogeyman

Jaylah shakes with fury and fear as she stalks deeper into her house, away from the prying eyes of the alien newcomers. Away from _Krall_ , the eater of her family, and many other people's families. Behind her, she can hear a lone set of footsteps in pursuit, and she whirls around, ready to give the winged captain James Tee a piece of her mind. Instead, it is Montgomery Scotty who follows her, and he lifts his hands to show he holds no weapons. "Whoa there, lass, it's just me," he says.

 

She now recognizes the word 'lass' is not meant to be a name, just something that he says, for reasons she does not know. So she does not snarl at him for it this time. "You can not change my choice, Montgomery Scotty," she warns him. "I give three days only."

 

"It's all right. I wasn't going to ask you to change your mind," the engineer replies, his face pinker than usual. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

 

All right? She does not understand, but she can take a guess at what he means. "You can not ask me this. Krall is in my house. I did not ask you to fix my house so you could take him with you. He should die for what he has done. James Tee wants him to live and I do not understand why."

 

Montgomery Scotty's face twists in a strange manner, and he scratches the top of his head. "It's his job, Jaylah. He has to get all the information he can before he makes any big decisions like that, and you've seen what our mutations are up to. It's a human thing, and Krall's one of us, our people I mean. If he is the way he is because his mutation's gone 'round the twist, we might be able to learn how to stop it from happening to us too."

 

Jaylah hisses through her teeth, every instinct telling her to simply run. Abandon her house, find new shelter, far away from here. But after living here for so long, it is hard to bear the thought of leaving this behind. Her familiar hunting grounds, her music, all the pieces she has gathered from other crashes. And, of course, her best chance at finally leaving this planet forever.

 

She can't leave now.

 

Which means that she must accept these Starfleets keeping Krall in her house for three days. It is a terrible thing to face, to share space with that monster.

 

"He is dangerous," she says instead.

 

"Yeah, I can see that," Montgomery Scotty agrees immediately, raising those expressive patches of hair above his eyes. He hesitates, and she wonders why, before he opens his mouth again. "Jaylah... did you name him? He never told you his real name, right?"

 

"You are right. I name him Krall because that is what he is. It means monster, one who feeds on others, a creature who comes in the night." Jaylah only has vague memories of her parents teaching her stories from their people's mythology, but the figure of _krall_ is one that has stayed with her. A night demon, hunting his prey no matter where it flees. She does not remember enough of the story to tell Montgomery Scotty, but it does not matter. Krall is his own horror now.

 

"I suppose ye had to call him _something_ ," Montgomery Scotty says, his voice thoughtful.

 

She turns and begins walking deeper into her house again. "I do not want to talk of Krall. Being so close to him makes me shake and now he is _here_."

 

He follows her again, and this time she lets him, moving down to the engines. When she is upset, working on machines makes her feel better, and she has noticed it is the same with her new friend. "We keep working," she tells him, grabbing tools and turning on her music. Her house fills with loud shouting and pleasing thumping sounds, helping to silence the thoughts of Krall. "We work on engines now," she shouts over the noise.

 

Montgomery Scotty's face does that strange twisting again, but he nods, and joins her in digging into the machine, pulling out burned wire and replacing it with parts from her hoard.

 

It is not long before another Starfleet appears. The tall one with pointy ears, his shirt stained with green. "Mister Scott, can you explain why such excessive volume is necessary? It is quite distracting."

 

Jaylah only gives him a glance before turning back to the engine. She keeps aware of him, however, in case he is dangerous too. He did defend Krall, and that makes him a possible threat. She has never seen his kind before, so he is the most unknown.

 

"Ah, it's not me, commander," Montgomery Scotty answers. "This is Jaylah's house, and it's her music. You want it turned down, you've gotta ask her. Personally, I wouldn't. We did just bring a crazed cannibal madman onboard without asking."

 

Jaylah does not turn around, but she does smile a little. It is good to know that he is on her side, at least.

 

"I see." The commander, whatever his name is, does not approach her to ask her to make the music quiet. Maybe he sees that she will say no, and does not see the point in trying. Instead, he moves his head downward a little in her direction, something she has seen the other Starfleets do also. Then he walks away, leaving Jaylah and Montgomery Scotty alone.

 

She looks over at her newest friend curiously, and the engineer twitches his shoulders upwards for a moment. "Mister Spock's a pretty logical guy," he says, as though that explains everything.

 

Jaylah decides that she does not need to know everything. This Mister Spock has not asked her to make the music quiet, and he has not argued with her decision to kill Krall in three days. She does not know what he wants, but he may not be her enemy.

 

She will have to wait and see.


	28. Duty

"Captain?"

 

Kirk isn't sure why he responds, ready to take to the sky and get the hell away from here for a while, needing the space to clear his head. But long-engrained duty makes him turn, and then thoughts of escaping are forgotten. "Sulu? What happened?"

 

His helmsman has changed. His legs are partly buried, twisted roots growing out of him and pinning him to the earth in a kneeling position. Rainwater drips off new green leaves sprouting from his head and shoulders, and while his face has a greenish cast to it that wasn't there before, the exposed skin of his hands are rough and woody.

 

Kirk aborts his ascent, turning neatly on a wingtip to land on top of the ridge. Sulu's eyes widen a little as he takes in the captain's own altered appearance. "Same thing that happened to you, I'd guess," the lieutenant answers.

 

"Seems so." Kirk keeps his wings half-open, letting the rainwater trickle between his feathers, washing away some of the dust he's been gathering these past few days. "You all right? Need anything? We could probably set up a tarp to keep the rain off."

 

But Sulu shakes his head. "It's all right. I'm pretty sure I'm photosynthesizing now, so the water's helping."

 

"Right." Kirk runs a hand through his head-feathers, and suppresses a grimace at the unfamiliar sensation, missing his hair. _At least there's something there._ "They just left you out here?"

 

"Can't exactly move me, sir. I'm stuck." Sulu puts on a brave face, but Kirk can guess what he might be thinking about - his husband and daughter, back on _Yorktown_ \- and feels a pang of guilt. The captain isn't the only one going through a rough time, and here he is, wallowing in his own turbulent emotions while his crew needs reassurance.

 

"We'll get you out," Kirk promises, unsure whether he's lying or not. They don't even know if they'll be able to escape the ships in orbit, or if the _Franklin_ will even be spaceworthy after a century of rotting away on this planet. "I won't leave you behind."

 

"I know, sir." Sulu's voice is quiet, but confident, despite his fears.

 

That after all this, he still has that level of trust and faith in his captain... it means a lot, more than Kirk would have believed. And whether or not they're both lying to each other, at least they're both willing to pretend. Unable to think of what to say, Kirk just reaches out and claps Sulu on the shoulder.

 

Sulu manages a smile. "I know you were heading out, captain. Don't let me stop you. I'll keep an eye on the fort until you get back."

 

"I'll hold you to that."

 

It's not as hard as it probably should be to turn his back on a crew member in trouble, but he tells himself that Sulu is as safe as he can be, that there's nothing he can do. Chilly rain drops cling to his face as he gets a running start, taking to the air, slowly ascending above the wreck of the _Franklin_. From the air, the ship is nearly undetectable, buried under foliage at the end of a long impact trench. But the yellow and blue of Sulu's survival uniform stand out against the green, a beacon marking the new location of their temporary home and refuge, standing sentinel over what little of his crew he's managed to reunite.

 

It's enough that he can reassure himself that they will be fine without him for a bit.

 

He does a long, slow loop around the area, getting his bearings. With the sun hidden behind a gray, overcast sky it's difficult to tell which direction is north, but he spots the glint of the river in the distance where it disappears into the canyon, and past it, the dark smudge of smoke. The _Enterprise_ , still burning days after her final descent to the planet's surface.

 

Confident that he can find his way back, he picks a direction and soars, gliding on the cold breeze, ignoring the wet drizzle across the back of his neck. On autopilot, he scans the ground, taking advantage of altered eyes and sharper vision, the predatory part of him on the lookout for anything edible. It's a welcome relief from the pressures of being captain in a crisis, of dealing with old unburied memories, away from the prying looks of those he trusts with his life.

 

It's incredibly freeing to simply _be_. Up here, he doesn't need to be Captain Kirk, or even Jim. He just is what he is, relying on instinct and experience to guide him, worrying only about fulfilling his basic needs.

 

It feels _dangerous_.

 

McCoy was right, he realizes. Whatever is happening to their mutations has its claws in _deep_ , and this siren call is a stronger pull than he's ever felt before. He could easily fly away, never looking back, carving out territory for himself and living off the land. He's done it before, with much fewer resources. He beat Tarsus IV, fighting for his life on a dying world, doing whatever he had to do to survive.

 

Whoever Krall was, it's easy to see how he went off the deep end.

 

But there are people relying on Kirk to get them out of this. He is the captain, responsible for the lives of over four hundred men and women, and it's his job to get them home safe and sound. If he abandons them, Sulu will never see his husband and daughter again. Spock will never see his father. McCoy will never see his daughter. And so it goes, in a hundred variations, so many lives depending on him.

 

For now, it's enough.

 

He soars over an open field, taking note of the small animals he sees below, mentally cataloguing every resource he can find so that his crew might live. They're his responsibility, his family. And until they are safe, he'll fight for their lives in any way he can.

 

It's his duty.


	29. Krall

He wakes alone.

 

Slowly, painfully, he becomes aware of the enclosed space around him, absent of the life-feel of other creatures. The ground underneath him is hard and cold, and smells of metal and old dust. The air does not move, does not bring him the scents and sounds of fresh prey. It's stifling and sterile, unnatural, trapping him in a box.

 

A box that looks... familiar, somehow.

 

He rolls over and leaps to his feet, bare toes digging into the cold metal underfoot, and nearly falls over as the room tilts before his eyes. He sways in place, crouching low to keep his balance, and shakes his head with a growl. He must have a clear head. He is in new territory, and there are traces of other food creatures, and the challenging scent of a fellow predator.

 

When the room stops moving around him, he straightens and looks, some part of him telling him that this is familiar, that he has hunted these grounds before. Yes... here, long ago, he remembers standing in this place. There were other food creatures there too, dozens and dozens, all hungry and looking to him to bring them food, not realizing that there was food all around them.

 

And so he showed them.

 

One by one, the food creatures fell to his hunger and became one with him, sustaining him, strengthening a body weakened without food. Within him, they are protected still, held in him forever. Safe.

 

In the back of his mind, a dull roar begins to shout, hundreds of voices whispering and waking after long silence beneath raw instinct and madness. He claps his hands over his ears and snarls, uneasy, wanting to go back to the way things were, the way he has lived for an uncountable time. Back when his mind was silent, united in the urge to hunt and sleep and defend territory. Now, this room has changed all this, making him remember things long forgotten. He does not like it.

 

He staggers over to the wall, and touches a strange shape, fingers remembering what the mind does not. A flat thing folds out of the wall, covered in soft colorful cloth, and he touches it, startled at the long-forgotten feel beneath rough hands. Once, he remembers lying on one, surrounded by others, all sleeping together in the dark. Family, maybe pack, before they became food.

 

There are strange objects in the room, flat things full of color and faces, and there is a strange burning in his eyes as the voices scream in his head. He touches the things, and sounds come unbidden into his thoughts. Manas. Karliah. Jackson. Brown. Coldwater. Many more sounds, his tongue thick and dumb in his mouth, refusing to give them voice. He shudders and turns away, unable to escape the thoughts that roar through his mind.

 

He looks down at himself, old dirty rags hanging off his bones, nothing like the colorful images on the flat things except for a strange shape still clinging to his waist. A yellow pointy shape, whose meaning is long forgotten, but he feels it holds great importance to him. It is everywhere, in the images, in the soft surface from the wall, engraved into many places in the room that he can see. It means _home_. Or it did, once.

 

His head snaps up as he remembers the predator from before. Golden feathers above golden eyes, glaring at him in challenge, wings spread wide to prove how much bigger it was than him. The predator was wearing the same shape on its coverings, underneath the red blood dried on its chest, proof of its prowess as a hunter. A hunter in _his_ territory, hunting _his_ prey, interrupting his kill before he could finish. It is this predator whose scent lingers in this room, marking its territory.

 

Marking _his_ home as its own.

 

He snarls in anger and fear, cracked lips pulling back from yellowed teeth. The other predator is too strong to fight, aided by its own pack, and weapons that turn his territory against him. It defeated him, stole his kill with little effort. And now it holds him in its claws. The only path left is to try to flee, to find new territory.

 

He follows the scent to a seam in the wall, and there are the fluttering life-sounds of food creatures on the other side. Again, his fingers remember the symbol that his mind does not, and he presses it with ragged fingernails. But the wall does not open, and he throws himself against it, whining in his throat. He _must_ get to them, but he cannot reach them. A desperation roars up inside of him, fear of the horrible gnawing hunger that haunts him in fragmented memories, fear of letting his pack fade to nothing, the need to save them engrained deep in his soul.

 

There are muffled sounds from the food creatures outside, but the wall still does not open, and soon it grows silent again. He paces the room, clutching at his head, the voices screaming in pain. They cannot endure this agony, disturbing him with every turn, every sight of the room sparking long-forgotten thoughts of this ancient home. He cannot escape it. It is everywhere.

 

He retreats and curls up on the soft thing from the wall, water coming from his eyes to stop the flames that are surely burning there, and his mouth makes sounds he has not thought about in a very long time, whimpering into the empty silence. "Sorry, sorry, sorry..."

 

He doesn't know what the noises mean, but they are ripped from his heart, torn through a throat raw from disuse and spoken to those who are no longer here to hear him. All around him, the flat images stare, teeth bared happily, looking at him in silence, their voices echoed by the screaming in his head. _What have you done what have you done what have you done..._

 

He does not know.


	30. Code

Uhura misses the arrival of the first wave of crewmen, up on the bridge of the _Franklin_ , locating new blips on the ship's sensors that must be as-yet uncontacted crew. She about leaps out of her seat when the ship screams around her, beating out a pounding bass line through the deckplates under her boots, and she catches a glimpse of blue fabric passing the doorway out of the corner of her eye.

 

She takes a minute to make sure her heart isn't going to leap straight out of her chest before she stands, heading out into the narrow corridor that links the bridge to the transporter room to find out what's going on.

 

"Nyota," Spock's voice says behind her, and she turns to see him still dressed in his shipboard science blues, dried green blood crusted in the fabric on his side. But he's upright and looks healthy enough, and she only needs a moment to throw her arms around him in what is no doubt an embarrassing display of emotionalism.

 

Spock doesn't complain, however, and he holds her just as tightly. "It is pleasing to see you uninjured," he tells her, though he has to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the positively ancient music that's rattling the walls.

 

Uhura draws back just enough to see his face. "Wish I could say the same. Are you okay?"

 

"I am functional," he says, which _isn't_ what she asked, and she levels a look at him, sending her displeasure through the weak bond they share. "I was seriously wounded during evacuation," he amends wisely. "Doctor McCoy assisted me in attaining _tow-kath_. My injury is no longer life-threatening."

 

While it's horrifying to know that he was hurt badly enough to need a healing trance, the fact that he is standing and coherent now is a good sign. And of course it's logical to ensure that any injuries are tended to promptly, so she can trust that he isn't avoiding medical attention unnecessarily. "I couldn't feel you."

 

"We were geographically distant, and my control has not been adequate for such long-distance contact," Spock admits. "And contact through the bond while in a healing trance is often difficult. I must express my apologies for worrying you."

 

"I'm just glad you're safe now." She gingerly touches his side, where the darkest stains are concentrated on his shirt. He doesn't flinch at the contact, and she tugs up the hem to see shiny, pale green skin, covering a patch as big as her palm on his side, right next to his heart. Her fingers lightly trace the contours of the scar, and she tries not to think of how close she was to losing him.

 

He catches her hand in his, and sends her a flicker of warmth. "I am recovering well. Your concern is noted and appreciated." Spock releases her hand, and clasps his hands behind his back. "There is a matter that requires your attention, lieutenant."

 

Back to business, it seems. She can handle that. "Something besides contacting stranded crew?" she asks, schooling her expression into her professional face.

 

"Indeed." Spock inclines his head in acknowledgment. "During their trek to rejoin us, Ensign Chekov's party discovered signs of a previous civilization on this world. Lieutenant Hendorff brought back samples of writing from an underground laboratory. The language is unfamiliar, and your expertise is required to decipher it."

 

He sure knows how to get her attention. "I'll give it my best shot. What kind of lab was it?" she asks, and follows him toward crew quarters.

 

"Unknown," Spock replies. "I was not present when it was examined, and those that were there were unable to determine its purpose."

 

One of the doors to crew quarters has a jury-rigged lock on it that looks distinctly like Scott's work, and Giotto and Hendorff are standing guard outside of it. Uhura remembers the captain reporting something about a prisoner, when she spoke to him yesterday, so she supposes that must be what they're guarding.

 

Hendorff salutes her and promptly hands over a sheaf of ancient papers, so old that she's worried they might crumble into dust if she looks at them wrong. "I wasn't able to make heads or tails of them," the security officer tells her. "But they look like chemical formulas of some kind."

 

Uhura nods absently, her mind already at work trying to puzzle out the text. The writing system isn't one that she's seen before, but there's something oddly familiar about it, like it's an offshoot of one of the more obscure dialects she's studied. With time, there's a good possibility she can crack the code. "I'll get started right away," she says, nodding her thanks to Hendorff. "Thanks for finding this."

 

"If you require my attention, the captain has ordered me to review the ship's logs," Spock tells her. "Do you require anything at this time?"

 

Uhura grimaces slightly, looking up at the ceiling where the lights are vibrating slightly at the volume of the music shaking the ship. "Peace and quiet, but it doesn't sound like I'm going to get it, unless I go outside."

 

"It's raining out there, ma'am," Giotto informs her.

 

"Of course it is," she sighs. "Thanks. I'll be on the bridge, then." There's nowhere on the ship that'll be soundproof enough to escape the noise, but it seems logical for someone to be there to monitor transmissions, at least. And she's become quite the accomplished multitasker in these past few years.

 

It's tough going, without access to the _Enterprise_ 's databanks. And the _Franklin_ 's padds are a very old, clunky design that doesn't allow nearly the amount of writing in the margins that she really wants. But she persists at it, wracking her brain and scribbling down notes as she goes, sorting symbols into likely groupings. These symbols for connecting words, these symbols for possible nouns, these for potential verbs. It's translating with both arms tied behind her back, lacking context or verbal clues on how to read the letters. Hell, even a simple alphabet would give her a better footing to start with.

 

By the end of the day, she has a hell of a lot of notes and one monster of a headache, and the text is no more readable now than it was this morning. But she feels she's made progress regardless, and rather than stay awake worrying about Spock or how they are all going to get home, her thoughts will be full of alien symbols and theories, lulling her to sleep.


	31. Logs

The rain has stopped by the time the captain returns to the _Franklin_ , and despite his best efforts to shake his wings dry before entering, he still leaves a wet trail across the deck in his wake. His distraction from the mess is understandable, however, as the ship is still reverberating with what Spock comes to understand is Jaylah's way of coping with stress.

 

"Beastie Boys, huh?" Kirk says, raising his eyebrows as he enters the bridge. "Didn't know we had any tunes onboard."

 

Spock nods to him slightly in greeting. The captain's mental state appears improved, although it has become difficult to tell, in light of the alterations this planet has had on his physiology. "Mister Scott thought it prudent to allow her a measure of control over our situation, to compensate for our introduction of an uninvited guest."

 

"Makes sense," Kirk agrees, folding up his wings against his back to allow rainwater to drain down his legs and off the points of his primary feathers, rather than risk flinging liquid over delicate instrument panels. "What've you found out so far?"

 

It is slightly awkward to discuss matters of this nature over the loud cacophony that is Earth's classical music, but Spock is nothing if not adaptable to unique circumstance. "There is a great deal of data in the ship's logs, but I have concentrated my chief efforts on records created after the date of the USS _Franklin_ 's last known location. It appears that the ship was captured by a wormhole of sorts and brought to this sector. They were struck down by the same ships that we were, though Starfleet's use of armor plating seems to have prevented the same type of catastrophic structural failure to the ship's warp nacelles that the _Enterprise_ sustained."

 

"Didn't get them chopped off," Kirk summarizes in his typical blunt manner, no doubt deflecting the pain he feels at the loss of the _Enterprise_. "But she still crashed here."

 

Spock inclines his head. "Yes. Twelve crewmen perished in the impact, including the chief engineer. Efforts to repair the ship failed without suitable replacement parts for critical systems." He hesitates before continuing, aware that this may be a sensitive subject for his emotional human captain. "Ship's stores were able to provide enough food to sustain the crew for one hundred thirty days."

 

Kirk's hands tighten into fists, but he otherwise gives no outward indication of his feelings. "Continue."

 

"From what I have been able to determine, this planet's seasonal cycle is far longer than that of Earth. The cold season comparable to winter lasts approximately two hundred days on average. At the time of the _Franklin_ 's arrival, this hemisphere of the planet was just entering winter, leaving little wildlife apparent to supplement the ship's supplies, nor viable vegetation."

 

The captain is silent for a moment, his throat convulsing in a way humans tend to use when concealing great emotion, and Spock waits patiently for him to compose himself, allowing him that dignity. "So they starved."

 

Spock is not unfeeling, particularly now, when his emotional control has been weakened by blood loss. It is a reasonable response to feel sympathy towards his captain and friend, who has never directly spoken of the famine he endured in his youth, particularly when faced with the reality of a Starfleet crew who did not survive a similar ordeal. But there is more. "Many did," Spock replies. "But I have located a log entry that I believe may be of interest. You may find its contents disturbing."

 

"Great," Kirk says flatly, which Spock has long since come to realize implies the precise opposite of what he has said. "Let's see it."

 

Spock turns to the computer and keys in the command to play the relevant log entry. The screen switches from a text display to show the face of Captain Balthazar Edison of the USS _Franklin_ , appearing far more haggard and disheveled than his official portrait. He has not shaved in some time, and there is a wild look in his eye, masked by despair.

 

" _Captain's log... I don't know the stardate. I don't know why this is happening to us. The longer we stay here, the more out of control our mutations get._ " On the screen, Edison looks away, swallowing hard, his eyes shiny with moisture. " _I accidentally killed Commander Manas today. I didn't eat my rations this morning, and he got too close. Something just... snapped. Before I knew it, I took his life into myself and he was just... drained. And now he's in my head. Everything he was, everything he knew, screaming out at me._ "

 

Spock glances at Kirk to judge how he is handling the situation. The captain's golden raptor eyes are riveted on the recording, impossible to read, and he appears to be holding his breath, wings half-open like a startled bird ready to take flight, dotting the deck below him with dark water spots.

 

" _I killed him. But we're all going to die anyway, aren't we? And I feel stronger now than I have in weeks. Like I haven't been starving with all the others. And I have to wonder... if this is it... maybe I can save them, in some small way. Maybe if this is what I am now, I can let them survive in me. If I let them starve to death... they'll be lost forever._ "

 

" _We're not going to be rescued anytime soon. And we don't have the supplies to keep everyone alive long enough to wait for someone to stumble across our beacon. One person will have a better chance of survival alone. How can I make this choice? There's no other way to preserve my people, to let them live on, except to do the unthinkable. To... take them for my own nourishment, to make them a part of me, and endure until Starfleet finds us._ " Edison breaks off and covers his eyes with his palm, shoulders shaking uncontrollably as he sobs into his hands. " _There's no other way._ "

 

Kirk turns away, his face pale, and Spock stops the recording. "Captain, are you all right?"

 

He expects the captain to deny any infirmity, but Kirk shakes his head, looking as though he may be ill. "No, God no. He ate his crew. He fucking _ate his crew_."

 

"It would appear so," Spock agrees, attempting a gentle tone of voice. Kirk is not a fragile or weak man, but he has endured much, and even a Vulcan would find this disturbing. "I believe that Captain Edison and our prisoner are in fact the same man."

 

Kirk doesn't move, doesn't look up or acknowledge the theory. He hunches over slightly, arms wrapped around himself protectively, eyes closed. Spock cannot make an attempt to speculate what he may be thinking about. He remains in this pose for several seconds before taking a deep, shaky breath and opening his eyes. "Yeah. I think you're right."

 

Spock is somewhat relieved that he does not need to waste time convincing Kirk of this quite logical conclusion. Edison's mutant power clearly allows him to drain the life from others, as Krall has demonstrated he is able to do. And there is evidence that the stranded captain made the conscious decision to consume his crewmen to prolong his own life. Ethics aside, there is little reason not to suspect that Edison's power has allowed him to survive an unnaturally long time under the x-gene enhancement native to this world.

 

There is a horrified sympathy in Kirk's eyes now, all traces of anger gone from his posture. "He's been here for almost a _century_ , with the voices of everyone he consumed in his head. That'd drive anyone insane."

 

"Indeed," Spock agrees. "His animalistic state is entirely psychologically understandable, if Krall is indeed Edison. He may be guilty of the murder of his crew, but it is possible that his subsequent actions were driven by insanity brought on by his chosen course of action, and extreme prolonged isolation. He is not in his right mind."

 

Kirk still appears as though he might be sick, but he handles it as well as can be expected. "He should get professional psychiatric help. He's a victim too, and he's still Starfleet. But I don't think Jaylah will go for that. He killed her parents."

 

Spock inclines his head. "Her ultimatum gives us two point six days to devise a solution that meets with her satisfaction."

 

"Yeah." Kirk sighs, running a hand through the feathers on his head. "God. We can't just kill him now. It's not right. He just did what he had to do."

 

"Indeed not." Though Spock cannot think of a satisfactory answer to this conundrum either. And when Jaylah's deadline is up, he has little doubt that she will carry out her threat, destroying the last remnant of the _Franklin_ 's crew, held safe in the tatters of Captain Balthazar Edison's mind.


	32. Enlightenment

There's something oddly peaceful about the great outdoors. Even when he's a captive audience.

 

Sulu doesn't feel the urge to fidget, kneeling in the dirt while his roots grow deeper by the hour. Collected rainwater runs down his exposed face and hands, strengthening him, and he turns his face to the wind. It's cold, he knows, but it doesn't feel like it. He's where he's supposed to be, planted in the earth, waiting for a break in the clouds to bring warm sunshine.

 

But he can't stop thinking about Ben and Demora.

 

At one point, he'd heard talk about allowing families on starships. Five years is a long time to be separated from loved ones, with only occasional visits, and Starfleet Medical's psychology division has speculated that it might improve morale over long journeys.

 

But more military-minded opinions prevailed, arguing that every starship is constantly in danger from both known and unknown dangers. Klingon or Romulan attack is a very real possibility, not to mention all the other hazards of deep space, and if the destruction of a starship took civilian lives as well... it is never acceptable.

 

Sulu's glad that they aren't here. That he doesn't have to worry about his husband or daughter being lost somewhere on this wild world, or worry that they went down with the _Enterprise_ when she made her final descent. But at the same time, he misses them with all his heart.

 

There's an answering pang of loss that cuts through him in an instant, an overwhelming sense of grief and loneliness, and his breath catches in his chest, a lump forming in his throat. For a moment, he thinks it's coming from himself.

 

His roots tingle beneath him, reaching deep into the planet, and they throb with agony of heartbreak.

 

 _It's not me. It's the_ planet _!_

 

Sulu fumbles for his communicator, almost unable to reach where it clips onto his belt at his hip. Leafy fingers nearly drop the device, but he holds on firmly and lifts it to his mouth. "Sulu to _Franklin_."

 

There's a brief pause before there is an answer. " _Uhura here. What's wrong?_ "

 

"Uhura, the planet's alive," Sulu says, aware as he does so that it sounds absolutely insane. "I can actually feel it."

 

There's an even longer pause, and he tries not to picture the look on her face. " _Hikaru... the captain admitted his overactive x-gene is affecting him mentally. Is there any chance that this is the same sort of effect?_ "

 

He's forced to consider that. He's a Starfleet officer, and every possibility must be examined before he draws his conclusion. "Possible, but unlikely. Aside from that urge to dig, which is gone now, I haven't noticed anything like that." He hesitates as a thought occurs to him. "Mister Spock's a touch telepath. Would he be able to tell, if he mind melded with me?"

 

" _I'll ask him. Stand by._ "

 

Sulu waits patiently, unable to do anything else. It's not like he's going anywhere. Several minutes later, he hears the sound of someone climbing up the side of the ravine, and Spock appears. The first officer barely raises an eyebrow at the helmsman's changed appearance, and if he's spent any time around the captain since they've landed here, Sulu can understand why this doesn't come as any kind of surprise.

 

"Lieutenant," Spock greets him. "I understand you believe you have made contact with an entity inside the planet."

 

"Not inside," Sulu corrects him, not sure how he knows this, but just knowing in his gut that he's _right_. "It _is_ the planet itself, sir. It's got me rooted deep and I can't help but feel it."

 

"Fascinating." Spock kneels in front of him, giving him the respect to have this conversation eye to eye, rather than looming over him. "Lieutenant Uhura informs me that you are requesting a mind meld to verify. It is not something that is handled lightly."

 

Sulu doesn't know much about mind melds, other than what common knowledge floats around the Federation. The way Spock talks about it, it sounds like a very private experience, and he gives the Vulcan an apologetic look. "I wouldn't ask if I could think of another way."

 

Spock looks at him, considering. "It is an intimate thing," he warns Sulu. "It is not mere surface contact, as with powers such as Lieutenant Giotto's mindreading. I may see your private thoughts that you wish to keep secret, and you with mine. There is no way to hide thoughts in the meld."

 

Sulu swallows a little, uncertain. It sounds kind of disturbing to lay himself bare like that, to trust his deepest thoughts with another. Private memories of spending shore leave with Ben in bed, or precious memories from Demora's childhood that he'd only shared with his husband before. But what other option is there? "I understand," he says, and hopes that that's true.

 

Spock nods, and folds his hands together, index fingers pressed against one another. "I require a moment to prepare. Please organize your mind, if you are able. It will ease the process."

 

Sulu has experimented with meditation in the past, but it's a whole different story when he's getting ready to let the first officer into his brain to talk to the entire planet. He focuses on his breathing, drawing in great lungfuls of air and letting them out slowly, steadily, the wind rustling through his leafy hair. He doesn't feel centered, but it will have to be enough.

 

Spock lifts his head and reaches out to touch Sulu's face, placing his fingers at specific points on his brow, cheek, and the bridge of his nose. "My mind to your mind," the Vulcan intones, giving it an almost ritual cadence. "My thoughts to your thoughts."

 

The world around him disappears in an instant, plunged into the dry desert heat of Spock's mind. His side throbs in time with the heartbeat just beneath the surface, his wound mostly healed but not quite, and he shakes slightly with lingering weakness from blood loss. He worries for the crew, so many still lost across the surface of the planet, their natural-given gifts turning against them. He calculates how long it will take Starfleet to realize the _Enterprise_ has gone missing, calculates the odds of rescue, and does not despair at the extremely low chance of them ever being found. He is consumed with trying to find a solution to the problem of Balthazar Edison, the mad cannibal captain of the _Franklin_ , locked in the ship below.

 

And he is Sulu, rooted in body to the surface of the planet, rooted in mind in _Yorktown_ to his husband and daughter. He worries for Demora, growing up forgetting his face, growing up without him there to watch her mature and evolve into the beautiful young lady she is destined to be. He worries for Ben, raising their little girl alone, far away from Earth out in the black, and remembers the night of passion they spent together mere days ago, affirming their love endures despite the hardship of separation.

 

And beneath all that, moaning in loneliness, an alien presence.

 

Together as one, their attention shifts to the consciousness filtering up through their roots. The alien mind reaches back, frantically grabbing at them, desperate to keep them with it. _So alone, so long... so lonely. Stay with me, forever._

 

Spock's mind moves closer to it, a spark in the darkness, Sulu at his side. _What are you?_ they ask as one.

 

The entity does not answer in words, but the blackness expands, and Sulu's mind spins with the enormity of it. He can sense every blade of grass, every tree, every rock formation and every trickle of water, spreading from the northern pole to the southern pole, hundreds upon thousands of kilometers, stretching out into almost eternity. And scattered across it... little burning specks of life, like candlelight. Wildlife and _Enterprise_ crew alike, spread throughout the senses of the world, hope in the darkness.

 

_I AM._

 

Spock pulls away, taking Sulu with him, and they surface into the world again. Sulu's pretty sure he looks gobsmacked, and there's a faint echo of his expression in Spock's face. "Fascinating," the Vulcan says at last.

 

"Yeah, I'd say so," Sulu agrees.


	33. Conference

" _You've gotta be kidding me_."

 

McCoy's voice filters through the communicator's speaker, tinny and incredulous. Kirk glances in the direction of the pond, wishing that he could somehow transplant the damn thing closer to Sulu so the doctor didn't have to phone in his contributions to the meeting.

 

The rest of the senior command crew sits in a rough circle on the ground, up on the ridge above the _Franklin_. Sulu's looking a lot greener than he did just this morning, though he doesn't look as freaked out as Kirk might have expected.

 

"Afraid not, doctor," Sulu replies, glancing over at Spock.

 

The first officer leans towards the communicator slightly, projecting his voice. "The planet is verifiably alive and conscious. This accounts for the watchful presence that I have sensed since the moment we landed. I could not locate the source because it was all around me."

 

Chekov is emitting constant waves of awe and fear. "Ze entire planet? How can zat be possible?"

 

Kirk frowns, turning the problem over in his head. He doesn't recall ever hearing about any sentient planets discovered in Starfleet's history, so they're clearly dealing with a unique lifeform of some kind. And there's something else bothering him. "Is it possible that whatever's affecting our x-genes is related to the planet's... status?"

 

"I'd say so," Uhura says. "I haven't been able to decipher the text that Hendorff brought me, but aside from the chemical formulas, there are also a few diagrams that look like DNA helixes. Maybe they were studying the planet, trying to learn how it came to be sentient."

 

"Or causing it," Scott points out. "It's not exactly common, is it? Could be artificially induced."

 

" _Whatever's responsible, I can't find it,_ " McCoy grumbles over the communicator. " _Every mutant in the crew that I've examined so far is showing elevated levels of growth hormones, but there are no viruses or bacteria common to everyone affected._ "

 

"Radiation," Uhura muses out loud, looking thoughtful. "The ships that attacked us were emitting some kind of unified energy field, of a type I've never seen before. We know that some forms of radiation can affect human beings in unusual ways, like on Gamma Hydra Four. If that kind of radiation is what's causing this, we might all be being continually exposed."

 

Spock tilts his head slightly, and Kirk can see that brilliant Vulcan mind working at the problem. "Lieutenant, was the energy field also shared between the ships and the planet?"

 

Uhura thinks back, and slowly nods her head. "It might have been."

 

Spock turns towards the captain to give his assessment. "Though my contact with the planet entity was brief, the overwhelming majority of its emotional transference was centered around a deep-seated loneliness. So desperate, in fact, that separation from the mind meld was incredibly difficult. Given that the ships which attacked us bore no pilots that we could detect, and the fact that they withdrew once the _Enterprise_ was fatally crippled, I hypothesize that the planetary entity was in direct control of those ships. It intended to disable us, not to kill us, but to bring us down alive to... 'keep it company.'"

 

" _You mean to tell me the planet shot us down because it wanted friends?_ " McCoy asks in disbelief.

 

"No, I think he's right," Sulu pipes up, his brow furrowed. "It makes sense. The first time I realized what was going on, I was thinking about my family and how much I... miss them." The hesitation is brief, almost unnoticeable, but they all hear it. "The planet feels the same way, a thousand times over. It misses the people who used to live here."

 

"If they knew the planet was alive, why would they leave?" Kirk asks out loud. It doesn't make sense to him. Especially if it turns out they really did cause it to gain sentience. Shouldn't they have a duty to the life they helped create?

 

"We do not know what happened to them," Spock answers. "It is possible that their abandonment of this planet was involuntary, or that they were rendered extinct by some means. Perhaps if the x-gene enhancing radiation was a consequence of the planet's awakening, it was incompatible with their physiology. Ultimately, we may never know for certain."

 

"Great. So now we have to convince it to let us go?" Kirk says with a grimace, running a hand through his head-feathers. "How the hell do we even begin to do that? This thing was so desperate for company that it shot down the _Enterprise_ , and countless other ships over the years. The _Franklin_ 's already gone down once because of it. She'll never make it to _Yorktown_ if the planet shoots her down again, and I don't think asking nicely is going to do the trick."

 

" _Sorry Jim, planetary psychology isn't my specialty,_ " McCoy says dryly. " _Spock, can't you just explain the situation to the damn thing?_ "

 

"I can make the attempt, but I do not know how much influence I will have on its decisions," Spock replies. "It is a living, thinking entity with its own desires and fears. And it is very young. Imagine, if you will, explaining to an orphaned child that you must abandon it to fend for itself without providing it with any alternatives, any other form of caretaker or companionship."

 

Chekov's compassion is nearly overwhelming. "Oh, ve cannot. If it has been alone for so long, it vill never agree to let us escape."

 

"Spock, Sulu, both of you work on establishing a rapport with the planet," Kirk decides. That's certainly a sentence he never thought he'd say. "Figure out a way we can keep it happy without us needing to stick around. If we have to stay for a little while, so be it, but I don't intend for us to live the rest of our lives here."

 

He waits for their acknowledgment of the order before continuing. "And we need to decide what to do about Edison."

 

"He's dangerous," Uhura says, but she looks uncertain. "Leaving him alive is a liability. I don't know if we should kill him, but we could beam him far away from here. He's clearly doing a great job of fending for himself so far. I say we exile him."

 

"He deserves psychiatric treatment," Spock disagrees. "He was forced into difficult decisions through unfortunate circumstance, and he has been driven quite mad. We would be ethically remiss if we were to cast him aside when he has waited so long for rescue."

 

" _He ate people, Spock,_ " McCoy growls. " _Our people! And his._ "

 

Kirk can't help the swell of anger in his chest, suddenly furious with his friend for judgment handed out so easily, without placing Edison's actions in context. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but history is full of instances where people have been pushed into cannibalism in order to survive. The Donner party, the sinking of the _Essex_ , the siege of Leningrad, and _Tarsus Four_."

 

There's a sudden dead silence from the other end of the communications channel, and Kirk can't meet the eyes of those around him, anger drowning in panic as his wings flare defensively. He hadn't meant to say that, but now it's out there, and he can't take it back. _Well, fuck them. They don't know what it was like._

 

" _Jim...?_ " McCoy's voice is uncharacteristically hesitant, a note of fear winding through the sound of the captain's name.

 

Kirk stands, unable to sit still, wanting nothing more than to run, to forget any of this ever happened. But the uncertain stares of his crew, his family, pin him in place, rooting him to the spot as surely as Sulu is rooted to the planet. Running won't fix this. "It was a fucking _famine_ , Bones." Every word is torn from his throat against his will, and he turns away from his crew, unwilling to let them see his face, unwilling to see the horror or disgust in their eyes. There's a reason he's never wanted to talk about what happened on that hellhole of a planet. "I was twelve. I didn't ask where they got our rations from. And you know I cut off my first pair of wings. What the fuck did you think I _did_ with them?"

 

Running won't fix this. But he can't stand to stay any longer, to turn and see the condemnation on their faces. He spreads his wings, and loses himself in the sky.


	34. Fallout

For a long, long several moments, nobody has any clue what to say. It's like a bomb went off, sucking all the air away, leaving nothing but stunned silence in its wake as the captain vanishes behind gray clouds.

 

It's McCoy who finally breaks the silence. "What the _fuck_ just happened?" he demands, his heart rattling his chest with every beat. He can't tell if the burning in his chest is from breathing air enough to call in, or from learning that those goddamn horrific rumors were _true_ all along and his best friend was caught in the middle of it all.

 

Spock's voice holds a hint of concern, which for a Vulcan is pretty blatant. " _It appears the captain is more emotionally compromised by the situation than we thought._ "

 

" _You're not bloody kidding,_ " Scott agrees, and though McCoy can't see any of them, he can tell that the engineer is rather freaked out by what he just heard. " _I don't even know what to_ say _about that._ "

 

" _Eto pizdets,_ " Chekov mutters, barely loud enough for the communicator to pick it up. " _Vhat do we do now?_ "

 

" _We follow orders,_ " Spock replies. " _Doctor McCoy, what is your medical recommendation regarding our response to the captain's... disclosure?_ "

 

God, he _hates_ dealing with patient psychology. It's not his specialty, and it's not nearly as cut-and-dried as surgery. Throw in Jim Kirk's host of issues and he's looking at a time bomb of epic proportions. One where the fuse may have just been lit. He takes a moment to dunk his head, taking a deep breath of water, any excuse to buy time to think this through.

 

By the time he surfaces, he's no closer to any kind of definitive answer. "He'll probably go off on his own for a while, but when he comes back, don't crowd him. Don't give him any funny looks. And for God's sake, don't mention it unless he does. If I know Jim like I do, he'd rather just pretend all this didn't happen, so the more normal you treat him, the better."

 

" _Are you sure?_ " Uhura asks, and if she's trying to hide the horrified pity in her voice, she's failing. " _I mean if he's kept this to himself all this time... maybe he_ should _talk about it. It's... pretty obvious he's not holding it together._ "

 

McCoy sighs, gripping his communicator with webbed fingers, the edges of the device biting into his palms. "Yeah, I know. Under other circumstances, I'd agree in a second. Take him off duty, make him talk to a shrink. But I don't have a way to actually _do_ that right now, and I'm afraid that if he doesn't have something to do with himself to help _us_ , we'll lose him. And we need him. No one else here's done anything even remotely close to this before."

 

He swallows, every fiber in his body hating that he has to talk about Kirk's secrets like this, to treat him like a wild animal that's ready to snap. But he knows the captain better than anybody. And he's _never_ seen Jim like this. Ever. "I don't think he ever really got over what happened to him, and now I _really_ get why he's never talked about it. I don't think he would've, if not for this x-gene thing messing with his head on top of everything else. So just... act as normal as you can. Be supportive and professional. And I'll try to get him to talk to me, when he comes back."

 

But when night falls, Kirk still hasn't returned.

 

McCoy spends the night in the pond alone, resting only in fitful spurts of sleep, unable to let his guard down in such an unfamiliar environment. The water's a little colder than he likes, and it's probably full of all kinds of horrid microorganisms, not to mention the slimy critters he occasionally feels flitting past his face.

 

But no matter how uncomfortable this is, his thoughts keep turning back to Kirk, full of worry for his friend. _Jim was only twelve when he had to survive Tarsus... only one year older than Joanna is now. And he's been dealing with this alone since then. I can't even imagine what that must have been like... and now he's facing it all again._

 

_Jim... when we get outta here, I am getting you as drunk as you want to be._

 

He lies in the mud at the bottom of the pond, half-awake, staring up at the rippling surface as it slowly lightens under the sunrise. And he jolts fully awake as he sees a large shadow pass overhead.

 

_Jim?_

 

McCoy pushes off the mud and rises to the surface, looking around. The sun is only just coming up over the horizon, casting reddish light over the alien landscape, glinting off golden feathers. Kirk sits at the water's edge, wings mantled behind him, arcing forward as if to protect himself. He doesn't turn to face the ripples, doesn't look at McCoy at all, just stares off into some middle distance. He looks awful, like he hasn't slept a wink, and several days of stubble darken his jaw.

 

_My lungs are gonna hate me for this._ But the captain needs him, so McCoy pulls himself out of the water and sloshes his way over to sit at Kirk's side. The air burns in his throat, but he'll get back in before his scales dry out, and he'll put up with the discomfort for his friend's sake.

 

Kirk is silent for several minutes, unmoving, like he doesn't even know McCoy is there. But finally, he speaks. "I told them I found a dead bird. That the rest of it was damaged too badly to eat. Nobody asked me any questions. Didn't realize until years later that nobody wanted to know. It was easier that way."

 

McCoy has been thinking about this for hours, but he still doesn't have a clue what to say. This would be a hell of a lot easier with a bottle of bourbon to share between them, but all they have is the solitude of nature, the implicit promise that this conversation won't go any further than the two of them. "And nobody noticed that you were injured?"

 

Kirk shakes his head, still avoiding eye contact. "I stole a regen unit from the clinic so I wouldn't bleed out, but I didn't know how to fix it so it wouldn't scar. It was enough that if anyone noticed anything, nobody asked. Like I said... no one wanted to know."

 

There's a morbid part of McCoy that wants to know more, but that's not what his friend needs right now. And it's only his business if Kirk decides it's his business. Besides... if he hears this story in any more detail, he might hurl. _God, you were just a kid._ "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Jim."

 

Kirk looks at him now, and for once, those golden eagle eyes aren't unnerving to look at. It's still _Jim_ in there, and he needs a friend, now more than ever. "Me too." He lets out his breath in a sigh, and raises his gaze to the sunrise, shoulder to shoulder with McCoy. "Starfleet offered psychiatric counseling to all the survivors, once we were rescued. But I saw the way people looked at us, like we were either monsters or fragile things to be pitied. I didn't want anyone to look at me like that, so I ran the first chance I got."

 

McCoy can fill in the blanks for himself. "And then you didn't stop, until you couldn't run anymore."

 

"Yeah." Kirk glances sideways at him, uncertainty in every line on his scruffy face. Judging his reaction. And McCoy knows that if he fucks this up, there's no going back.

 

_Take your own advice, Leonard. Don't treat him with kid gloves. Be his friend._ "I'm not gonna pretend that it doesn't bother me, Jim. My daughter's only a year younger than you were, back then. If I ever found out she went through something similar, I'm not sure I'd survive it. And you didn't have anyone to help you through it." He draws in a deep breath, ignoring the way his gills complain at breathing air instead of water. "But now you do. You can talk to me anytime, about anything you want. Or if you don't want to talk, that's fine too. Whatever you need."

 

It's not the first time he's said something like that to Kirk. But this time, it looks like the captain finally takes it to heart. Maybe the first time he actually believes it. "Thanks, Bones."

 

It's a start.


	35. Warrior

Krall only has two more days to live.

 

Jaylah grimaces as she awakens with that thought in her mind. It feels good to know that her hated enemy is near his end, but having to _wait_ to avenge her family... it is almost unbearable. Even more when she knows that he is in her house, a danger to all the foolish Starfleets keeping him there.

 

She bares her teeth at the guards outside the sleeping room as she passes by, not shy about showing her displeasure at their jobs. It would be so much easier if they simply killed Krall, and then there would be no need to fear.

 

She needs to get away from her house for a while. It is too much to be in the same place as that horrible thing.

 

Montgomery Scotty raises the ridges of hair on his face when he sees her gathering her hunting gear. "Where are you headed, lassie? I thought we were going to get the reactor going today."

 

"You can do it," she answers bluntly, as she straps many knives to her body and grabs her staff. "We need food for so many of your mates. If we eat what I have saved, there is no food for the cold time. New food always better anyway."

 

"Want some company?" a new voice asks, and she turns to see the captain, James Tee. He holds himself like a predator, his impressive wings barely open, just enough to boast of his natural abilities. There is dried blood on his jacket, and she can smell that it belongs to one of the purple animals she manages to trap sometimes, when she is lucky. His strange yellow eyes look at her in a challenge, and she meets his gaze, raising her chin.

 

She is still unhappy with him for saying that Krall must stay, and her lips curl back from her teeth. But she can see that he has had a successful hunt, even though he has only been here a short time, and that kind of skill will be very useful. Especially if they need food for four hundred Starfleets.

 

Four hundred! She still cannot believe there are so many. But she has heard Nyoota Hura speaking with many voices on the bridge, many more than are here now. And she does not think that James Tee will agree to leave any of his mates behind when they finally fly away. So they will all be here sometime.

 

Jaylah realizes that James Tee is waiting for her reply, and she tilts her head like the Starfleets do. "If you keep up and do not scare away prey, you can come." But she glares at him, not wanting him to think she has forgotten he is responsible for keeping Krall in her house.

 

James Tee does not smile, and tilts his head to her. "We'll carry more back with two of us. You know the terrain better than me, so lead the way."

 

She looks him over from head to toe. He does not have claws or sharp teeth, and his only weapon that she can see is the silver gun on his belt. "Do not take this," she says, slapping at the gun. "Sun makes it shiny and animals see it. Do you have other weapon?"

 

James Tee looks a little surprised and hesitant to give up his gun, but he obeys, giving it to Montgomery Scotty. Then he kneels down and pulls a knife out of his boot, one long enough to cleanly kill most prey without being stupidly big. "Good enough?" he asks her.

 

Jaylah cannot help but approve. It is more honorable to hunt prey up close, to allow the animal its final struggle, a chance for survival. It is the only thing that is fair in this place. "Follow me, James Tee."

 

She checks her small traps first, scattered around the area near her house. Most are empty, but there are two that hold the little furry things that dig underground. She kills them cleanly with a knife and gives the bodies to the captain to carry, which he does without complaining. "You're very good at this," he says quietly. At least he knows enough not to be loud and scare away more prey.

 

"I do this for a long time," she answers, just as quiet. But she looks at him, wondering. "What do you know of it?" This is clearly not the first time he has had to hunt to survive, with the way he moves.

 

James Tee looks uncomfortable with her question, but he answers, and she can tell he speaks the truth. "When I was very young, I spent some time on a colony world. While I was there, a fungus wiped out all the crops. The colony governor ordered half the colony killed, and we still ran out of food. There wasn't much to hunt, but it was all we had for months."

 

It is not the same as what Jaylah has been through. But it is close. Closer than the rest of his soft mates, who do not seem to know what it is to hunt or starve. His eyes are alien to her, but there is an understanding there. He _knows_ what this life is like, because he has done it.

 

She leads him into the sparse forest, alert for signs of larger prey passing through, seeking tracks in the soft dirt. "Your mates do not worry about this," she says, kneeling down to gently move a leaf aside, studying the animal track it was hiding. It seems fresh enough to follow, and she gestures for James Tee to come with her.

 

"Yeah. None of them have ever been in a real survival situation," he agrees, but there is no contempt in his face for his mates. She does not blame him. They are soft because they have not been strengthened in the same way. "Jaylah... we found out more about Krall," he says, and her grip tightens on her staff at the mere sound of that demon's name, her heart beginning to speed up its beats. "He's been here for almost a hundred years, by our calendar. He landed in winter, and he had nothing to eat but his own crew. It drove him mad."

 

She bares her teeth, hunt forgotten as she turns to face James Tee. There is pain in his eyes but she does not care. "Then kill him. It is mercy," she snaps.

 

He does not back down from her, and does not step forward to intimidate. He holds his ground, matching her ferocity. "It's not his fault. He's not in his right mind, and I'm sorry he killed your family. But he deserves the chance to get help."

 

"Help," she repeats with a sneer, trying to hide her fear. She knows that she is not fooling James Tee. He knows she is afraid of Krall. "What help he deserves? It is one thing to do what must be done, James Tee. The dead do not use their bodies. He ate my family when they are _alive_." Her voice breaks, and she cannot stop the tears. "My father begged me to run. My mother screamed for help. No one came, and Krall ate them."

 

James Tee steps forward, and puts a hand on her arm. Not to grab or hurt, but just to touch. She has not had anyone touch her in a very long time. "I'm sorry."

 

She stares at him through watery eyes, unsure what he wants, not wanting his pity. But there is only understanding, a mutual horror that means he knows what this is like, something his mates know nothing about. "What happened to the man on your 'colony' world who killed so many?"

 

James Tee's jaw clenches, and his hand tightens only slightly on her arm. "He escaped. Hid under a false name for years. We finally caught up to him a few years ago, and I arrested him. He was tried by a Federation court and convicted to life in prison, no possibility of parole."

 

She does not know some of those words, but she knows enough to understand that the monster of James Tee's past has been shut away from everyone forever. "Would they do this to Krall?"

 

He does not hesitate to answer. "If they don't lock him up in a mental hospital for the rest of his life, yes. Either way, he'll never be free. I can promise you that." He looks at her, and there is a strange compassion in his predator's eyes. "He has waited a very long time to be rescued, longer than he should've lived. We owe him that much, at least." He releases her arm and steps back. "Just think about it."

 

She looks at him, uncertain, but then there is the sound of an animal stepping on fallen sticks, and her attention is back on the hunt. They still need food, no matter how she feels about Krall. "I will think," she says quickly, quietly, and does not turn back to see the look on James Tee's face.


	36. Planet

Of all the things Sulu has ever imagined himself doing, trying to make friends with a sentient planet has never really been one of them.

 

There's a strange hum in the back of his mind all through the night, as soothing as a heartbeat, keeping him company. He doesn't begrudge his shipmates for not staying out with him overnight. With Krall - or rather Edison - neutralized, there don't seem to be any predators. And he doesn't mind the weather like they do. Besides... it's not like they've abandoned him.

 

Chekov comes to check on him not long after dawn, and Sulu senses him long before he sees him. Nervousness, uncertainty, and a healthy serving of curiosity. "Hikaru?"

 

"I haven't gone anywhere," Sulu calls back as his young friend climbs into view. The planet's warmth pulses in the back of his mind, harmonizing with the empathic sensations coming from Chekov. It's impossible to ignore, since the mind meld, always lingering like a shadow you see in the corner of your eye.

 

There's a small ripple of embarrassment, quickly replaced with mild amusement. "I know zat. I came to make sure you are okay. Do you need anything?"

 

Sulu shakes his head, and his neck creaks, stiff at being still for so long. Or maybe it's more than that. He hasn't exactly seen himself lately, but if the greenery sprouting from his head and shoulders is any indication, it's a fair bet that he's becoming more and more wooden as time goes on, like some kind of bizarre reverse Pinocchio. "I honestly haven't felt hungry or thirsty since I got... rooted. That's probably a good thing; I don't want to think about how hard this would be if I needed to use the head."

 

Another ripple of amusement. Sulu can't do much to help his friends and shipmates, but if he can help keep their spirits up, then he'll do what he can. Chekov plonks himself down in front of Sulu, legs crossed, perfectly at ease despite the drastic changes to his friend's appearance. "I can imagine. But there are other things you might need. Like a friend."

 

Sulu can't help a smile at that. Chekov has always been one of the more sensitive members of the crew, despite having only broadcast empathy. Not much gets past him. "I appreciate that. It's good to see you, Pavel. How're you holding up?" To say that things have been awkward with the senior command crew since last night is an understatement.

 

Chekov hesitates, radiating uncertainty. "As vell as can be expected, I think. The past few days have been... wery difficult."

 

"Yeah," Sulu agrees. There's no arguing that. "I don't know how we're going to get out of this one."

 

Chekov leans forward, his curiosity trickling to the forefront. "What does it feel like? Ze planet, I mean. I have never considered the possibility of an entire planet being alive. Not to mention sapient."

 

Sulu considers that, reaching out to that gentle thrumming in the back of his skull. The planet responds, warmth curling up around his mind like a cat, unwilling to part from him even for a moment. "It's... difficult to describe. I honestly don't know if I can." He pauses a moment to gather his thoughts. "When Demora was just a baby, she got sick once, and she constantly cried unless Ben or I was holding her, like she was afraid that we would disappear if we weren't touching her. But when we were with her, she felt safe enough to sleep." There's a small spike of interest in the warmth, like the planet itself is listening now, tapped into his thoughts. "It's really young, Pavel. I don't want to see the kind of tantrum it might throw if we left it like this."

 

" _Bozhe moi_ , neither do I." Chekov is startled and concerned, but interested. "Is it... friendly?"

 

Sulu hesitates again. "It could be. It's not hostile, not really. Just afraid of being alone again. It feels abandoned by its people, and it doesn't understand why they left. I don't think it understands what it's doing to us, either. With the x-gene enhancement, I mean. As far as it knows, this is normal."

 

"So you cannot ask it to stop," Chekov concludes, nodding. "Because it does not know how."

 

"Basically, yeah. It's like if you or I tried to manually control our own heartbeats. We just can't do it. I can't tell if it's a natural process, or something that was done to it, but... it's not like you can stop your projections right now, either. Same basic principle."

 

That, at least, is easy enough for Chekov to understand. "Ze poor thing. How vill ve ever conwince it to let us leave? It has been alone for so long. And it is not as though we can bring an entire planet vith us."

 

"If you come up with any ideas, let me know?" Sulu asks, smiling a little, trying to show that this whole thing hasn't actually scared the shit out of him. "We can't stay here, but we can't exactly strand someone else here in our place."

 

Chekov pauses, and there's a serious flicker of consideration. "Vhy not? Surely a planet like this should be studied. If ve can contact Starfleet, get them to send a scientific team of wolunteers, perhaps it vould let us go."

 

"Maybe," Sulu agrees, a little skeptical. "But the nebula's ionizing radiation won't let us transmit out, so someone would have to leave the planet first. And that's assuming anyone would be willing to stay here long-term."

 

"Aye," Chekov says, nodding. "Zat is the tricky bit."

 

"Tricky, yeah." Of course, Sulu knows they won't all be able to leave at the same time anyway. There's no way a ship the size of the _Franklin_ will be able to support the entire crew of the _Enterprise_ long enough to make it to _Yorktown_. And there's also the problem of how to dig him out without chopping off his roots. Either way, he won't be at the helm on their way out.

 

He manages another smile, and reaches out with bark-covered hands to touch Chekov's shoulder. "We'll keep working on it. The planet will come around." He doesn't know if that's the case, but if they need anything right now, it's hope.


	37. Bonding

There's something incredibly satisfying about bringing a fresh kill back to the nest. If he can't help his people escape this place, the least he can do is provide for his family, fulfilling their basic needs. It's something no one ever did for him, when he truly needed it.

 

Kirk helps Jaylah haul the spoils of their hunt back to the _Franklin_. Two rabbit-like critters, a handful of amphibians from a shallow pond, a bag full of fungi and plants that she assures him are edible, and his personal favorite, another one of those octodeer things.

 

Jaylah seems impressed at how easily he took it down, swooping down on it from above just as he did before. "They are not dangerous, but they are very fast," she tells him as he hefts the carcass over his shoulder, extending the wing on his other side for balance. "I trap them only, and only sometimes. It is a good kill, one which will feed many of your mates."

 

"Us," he corrects her, ignoring her look of surprise. "You're not Starfleet, but we need each other. You let us into your house, your life, your past. You've shared your hunting grounds, and you're entitled to your fair share of what we're taking back. As far as I'm concerned, you're one of us for as long as you want to be."

 

She doesn't answer, and he can't read the look on her face. Maybe she's never had anyone say that to her before, or at least no one who meant it. But it's the plain and simple truth to him. When Kirk looks at her, he sees _himself_ , starving and alone on an unfamiliar world, forced into drastic measures to survive. Forced to grow up far before her time, her childhood stolen by tragedy. Except this time... things will be different. This time, she'll have friends, people who care if she lives or dies. And when they finally do leave this place, she's coming with them.

 

Maybe part of it is this x-gene thing messing with his instincts, like he's imprinted on her or something, maybe it's just their shared similar tragedies, but he doesn't particularly care _why_ he's become attached to her so easily. She needs somebody. And he's willing to let himself and his crew be those somebodies.

 

They're both in a better mood when they arrive back at the _Franklin_. It's been a good hunt, and it satisfies something primal in him to see enough food stored up for everybody at the ship, but he frowns a little as he remembers that this is only a tiny fraction of the surviving crew. _We'll need to check on them all today, make sure everyone's got enough resources._ Much as he hates to risk overhunting the area, it won't do them any good to leave them to their own devices if they end up starving to death.

 

And then there's the matter of the _Enterprise_. Freshly reprovisioned, there's a chance that enough supplies survived to be worth salvaging. And shipboard-grade food is designed to last for months without spoiling, something they may sorely need if they end up stranded here long enough to see winter.

 

God, he hopes it doesn't take that long. But he can't ignore the possibility and risk getting caught flat-footed when all the animals go into hibernation or migrate and leave them with nothing. Kirk sighs, and runs a hand through his head-feathers.

 

"Something wrong, James Tee?" Jaylah asks, looking up from offloading her own spoils of the hunt.

 

He shrugs, wings shifting on his back at the movement. "Thinking about logistics. I wasn't responsible for this many people last time. The situation isn't nearly as bad yet, but it could get there pretty easily, if I handle this wrong."

 

"Yes," she agrees. "It is easy for bad things to happen here." She doesn't have to mention Krall by name for him to know what she's thinking about.

 

"I bet." Kirk turns to face her, and she responds in kind, looking uncertain as to what he wants. Perhaps afraid he's going to push her about her ultimatum again. But he's already said what he needs to say on that. "I'll be leading a team to the _Enterprise_ to salvage what we can. You've got a good eye for things that might be useful in ways they weren't meant to be. I could use you on the team, if you're interested. But it will be dangerous. The ship's not exactly structurally sound anymore, and it's a lot bigger than your house is."

 

Jaylah's amber eyes search his face, and whatever she's looking for, apparently she finds it. "I do not fear this danger," she says at last. "You help me, so I help you."

 

He smiles at her, and reaches out to put his hand on her shoulder. "I appreciate that. Let's finish up here, then I'll gather the rest of the volunteers and we'll beam over."

 

There's a spark of something in her eyes as she replies, "I am excited for this beaming. It is good to bring back more than we carry."

 

"My thoughts exactly."

 

The corridors of the _Franklin_ are a bit noisier than they were before, as more crew slowly take up residence within her metal walls. Some of the injured have been healed enough to resume duty, and Kirk nods at Lieutenants Galloway and Farrell, taking their turn guarding the locked crew quarters containing Edison. Galloway still sports a bandage on his head and Farrell's arm is in a sling, but they're both upright and mobile, and salute the captain as he passes, Galloway's metallic skin glinting in the low light.

 

"Good to see you both," he greets them. "You holding up all right?"

 

"As well as can be expected, sir," Galloway answers with a nod, and Kirk doesn't miss the brief once-over that the big security officer gives him. "You, captain?"

 

Trick question, and one he can't answer honestly. Because while he's physically fine... there's no denying that this place has gotten into his head. Deep. To the point where he honestly can't tell how much of it is his overactive x-gene, and how much is the ghosts of Tarsus IV, finally dragged from their graves.

 

"I'm fine," he says, and when Galloway casts a questioning look at his bloody jacket, he clarifies, "It's not mine." _Going to have to do something about that. If nothing else, the smell will give me away when I'm hunting._ "Any problems from the prisoner?"

 

"He's been pretty noisy," Farrell reports. "Nothing intelligible, but he's been yelling every now and then. Sounds like maybe he was breaking things earlier too." He hesitates, then asks, "Captain, do you really believe that we're doing him a favor, keeping him imprisoned like this?"

 

He can't get mad. He's always encouraged input from his officers, when there's time for them to give it. So it's with great restraint that he answers, "It's all we _can_ do. As you were, Lieutenants."

 

Neither of them push him any further. "Aye, captain."


	38. Salvage

It has been four days since the _Enterprise_ went down, and the fires still smolder in her hull.

 

Black plumes of smoke billow up from the twisted wreck, barely recognizable as the ship that has been their home for the last few years. The saucer section rests right-side up, but the lower decks have been compressed and collapsed, pushed upwards into the rest of the saucer by the impact. The main body of the ship lies nearly a kilometer away, a crumpled metal tube containing all that's left of engineering.

 

The salvage party materializes midway between the two sections of the wreck. For Kirk, who has already seen the wreck up close once, it's just another reminder of what they've lost. For Jaylah, it is a curiosity, a new and very large source of potential salvage, practically a limitless resource to help them to survive. For the others... it's a shock to see their beautiful lady, lying broken and mangled, her markings unreadable beneath the black burn patterns that have spread across her hull.

 

"Bozhe moi," Chekov mumbles, broadcasting shock and dismay. "The _Enterprise_..."

 

"She'll never fly again," Kirk says. It seems horribly appropriate, like some kind of twisted reflection. Here lies his ship, her nacelles sheared off, scars running so deep that they will never be repaired. And here they are, come to cannibalize her for parts, for food, any last resources she can give them. And unlike himself, there is no second chance waiting in the wings. "But she's not done helping us yet."

 

Spock recovers from the shock first, to no one's surprise. "Orders, captain?"

 

Right, orders. Kirk takes a moment to center his thoughts. "Chekov, take Jaylah and Hendorff. You three will go to the engineering section. Scotty's given us a list of parts to tag if they're intact, but if you see anything else that might be useful, don't hesitate to grab it. We'll also need materials to construct shelters once the _Franklin_ is gone, so gather as much as you can. Deck plates, support struts from the catwalks, anything that might be useful. And if ship's stores are intact, prioritize clothing and hygiene items."

 

He waits for them to acknowledge before he continues. "Spock, Palmer, you're with me. We'll hit the bridge first and see if we can download any navigational data from the trip here, then venture down to Deck Six to find out if the food stores are intact. Last stop is Sickbay. We're taking everything that's not nailed down. Any questions?"

 

"None, keptin," Chekov says, projecting determination, as Kirk knew he would. It always helps to have a goal, something to work towards.

 

"Would it be permissible to make a detour?" Spock asks, strangely hesitant. "There is an item in my quarters I would like to retrieve, if possible."

 

Kirk is in survival mode, all other training shoved aside, but even that gets his attention. Spock doesn't tend to make frivolous requests. "Something sentimental?"

 

"Perhaps," his first officer admits, and there's a very subtle expression of embarrassment that crosses his face. "It is of a... personal nature."

 

Kirk can't deny that he's curious, but he respects Spock's privacy enough not to ask in front of the others. If it was something he wanted to talk about, he would have. And the rest of his senior crew have already given him the same courtesy, after what happened at their meeting last night. "If the route there is passable, I don't see why not. Personal items are low priority, but we should be able to make a second trip for nonessentials in the coming days. That goes for everyone," he adds, directing it to the rest of the group. "I'm sure we all have something we want to save, and I'll give you that chance if I can. For now, you have your orders. Move out."

 

Accessing the interior of the saucer section is incredibly easy. Thanks to Lieutenant Palmer's superstrength, she's able to give Spock a vertical boost high enough to set him on top of the saucer, then jump up herself. Kirk flies up ahead to ensure the bridge's shattered viewport is still accessible, and the three of them step onto the ruined bridge.

 

He's been here before, after the crash, but it's no less creepy for it. Most of the chairs are sheared off at their bases, and some of the consoles are smashed beyond recognition. Spock makes a beeline for the nav console to download Chekov's notes, and Palmer covers her mouth with her hand in horror at the state of the bridge.

 

Kirk touches her shoulder as he passes by, just enough to let her know that she's not alone, then leaves her to recover her composure. He ignores the turbolift, well aware that without main power from the generators, it won't be remotely operational. Instead, he opens the hatch for emergency ladder access between decks, the passage eerily lit with red emergency lights. "We'll have to climb down, deck by deck," he says, throwing his voice over his shoulder. "If there are any obstructions, Palmer, I'll need you to clear them if you can. Chances are pretty good there's going to be major structural damage along the way."

 

"Aye, sir," she replies, a little shakily, but falling back on her training. She steps up to his side, and with only the slightest hesitation, she heads down the ladder first.

 

Kirk glances towards the nav console. "Spock?"

 

"Recent logs are available, captain," the Vulcan reports. "Downloading to my tricorder now. It appears that there was some data corruption. If we are fortunate, Ensign Chekov will be able to supplement the data from his memory."

 

"Good work. Will it be compatible with the _Franklin_ 's systems? The computers are a century out of date."

 

"It should not be an insurmountable difference," Spock assures him, and his tricorder finishes its download with a beep. "Download complete, captain."

 

At least something's going according to plan. "Great. Let's head down to Deck Five. Palmer's clearing the path." Kirk tucks his wings tight against his back and eases down the ladder, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists in instinctual discomfort at being in such an enclosed space. He's gotten used to free access to the sky, able to spread his wings to their fullest and take flight on a whim. There'll be none of that here, and it's uncomfortably reminiscent of cramming himself into an escape pod, like locking himself into a coffin.

 

The tension in his gut eases up as he steps out onto Deck Five, though it doesn't entirely go away. Not all of the emergency lights are lit, some smashed out from the impact, casting deep shadows throughout the corridors. The floor is canted at an odd angle, increasing the disorienting feeling of being on a sinking boat, far below the surface of the water, and the ship is unnervingly quiet without the hum of the engines resonating through the deck. It makes his feathers stand on end.

 

"Captain?"

 

"I'm fine, Spock." Kirk turns around to get his bearings, locating the door to Spock's quarters, and his own right next to it. The thought gives him pause. _Is there anything I want to take from my room?_ He can think of all sorts of things that wouldn't be useful to their situation in the slightest, like his book collection, but he doesn't consider that worth the detour. But as Spock forces the door to his quarters, Kirk can't help but follow anyway.

 

Spock's quarters have always been the most spartan on the ship, devoid of almost everything but the basics, and a few personal items. Even so, the room has been thrown into chaos by the force of the crash. The bolts connecting his bed to the floor have been sheared off, and most of his wardrobe is scattered throughout the room. Spock pays little attention to the mess, however, seeking out what looks like a silver briefcase, battered and dented, half-buried underneath the bed. Kirk doesn't have to ask why it's so important when he sees the name inscribed on the lid.

 

Spock meets his gaze, unashamed of showing sentimentality in front of his friend. Kirk manages to summon a smile, and nods in understanding. No words are needed.

 

"Come on," Kirk says instead, "Palmer's already down on Deck Six. Let's not keep her waiting."


	39. Inventory

"Ye know, the funny thing is, I thought maybe I'd given the captain too _many_ transporter beacons."

 

Scott stands in the cargo hold of the _Franklin_ , hands on his hips as he looks at the huge pile of crates and - quite frankly - _scrap_ that the captain has decided is useful enough to beam over. DeSalle and Giotto are hard at work, moving the gear from the transporter to the hold, where Keenser and Chapel then sort them into piles. It isn't at all surprising that the crates containing food make up the bulk of what the captain's party has beamed back, shortly followed by drugs and other medical supplies.

 

But this... "What the bugger even _is_ this?" Scott demands, poking at what looks like a massive stack of deck plates, of all things. The _Franklin_ 's structural damage wasn't severe enough to need this kind of repair, not to mention the sheer quantity of the bloody things. "Is the captain planning to build an entire second ship? Because that's gonna take a wee bit more time than I was hoping to stay here."

 

DeSalle shrugs, bringing over another crate. "I didn't ask. I just do what I'm told. Mister Chekov said the next batch is your repair parts, though."

 

"About bloody time," Scott says, turning back towards the cargo transporter. Once the pad is cleared, Kyle activates the transporter again, and Scott steps forward to check over the parts. It's not everything from the list he provided, but it's enough to cover the most important repairs. Life support, warp engines, and impulse engines. There won't be any way to fix the artificial gravity, but old pre-warp spaceships made do without, and so can they.

 

It might be his imagination, but the _Franklin_ hums in the back of his mind, like she's eagerly anticipating getting back up in the stars. And who could blame her? She's been stranded here for damn near a century already, and a beautiful lady like her was never intended to spend any time in atmosphere.

 

Scott pats the deck, almost like petting a puppy. "We'll get ye up and running again, sweetheart," he murmurs to the ship. She's still no _Enterprise_ , but she has a special place in his heart already.

 

Keenser makes a muffled sound that might be a snort of laughter, and the wee alien refuses to politely look away when Scott shoots him a glare. "Shut it," Scott grumbles, and waves towards the pile of parts. "Help me get these installed and I'll forget all yer sass, laddie."

 

It's _almost_ enough to trick himself into believing they're back to working on the _Enterprise_ together, patching her back together after a tricky battle with the Klingons or something like that. But everywhere he looks, the darker, more cramped corridors of the _Franklin_ constantly remind him that it's not his silver lady. Scott has to fight against the lump in his throat as he thinks about her, and wonders just how bad of a wreck the captain's team is exploring. _I'm glad I'm not there... I don't know if I could take seeing her like that._

 

Keenser blinks his big black eyes at Scott, and as always, doesn't say a word. The little alien hands him a spanner and climbs up a stack of crates to get at the plasma conduits.

 

_God bless ye, wee man._ Scott regains his composure as best he can, blinking away the blurriness in his eyes, and gets to work.

 

It helps to have something to work on, and it always has. Fixing machines is what he was made to do, and there's nothing more centering, more relaxing, than finding himself arms-deep in the guts of a starship. It's like a meditation, losing himself in the almost instinctual flow, removing damaged components and installing new ones, slowly bringing the _Franklin_ back to life.

 

By the end of the day, the deck hums beneath his feet as the reactor spools up, restoring full power to the ship. It's music to his ears, and even though every touch against the bulkheads reminds him that she still has dozens of systems down, it's progress. At the rate he's going, it could be only a week before the _Franklin_ is airborne and on her way to bring back help for the rest of the crew. Of course, if things go badly, it could be a month or more. But he prefers to trust in his own skills at getting this beautiful old lady up and going again.

 

So it's with a somewhat lighter heart that he joins everyone else in the mess hall that evening, and he can't help but be a little amused at the way some of the crew look at the food on offer. It's no high-class cuisine, that's for sure, but food is food. Scott doesn't hesitate to load up a plate with grilled salamander and a handful of neon orange mushrooms, only disappointed at the lack of proper seasoning.

 

There aren't enough seats for everyone, so Scott sits on the floor with his plate on his lap, resting his back against the wall. Hendorff glances at his plate and makes a face. "I can't believe you're eating that stuff."

 

Scott just shrugs, and takes a bite out of his critter of choice. "You can afford to be picky now if you want, but you won't always have that option, laddie."

 

Hendorff shakes his head and keeps walking, but Scott can feel eyes on him, and he turns his head to see Captain Kirk, giving him a nod from across the room. _Of course._ It's not easy to forget that the captain's been in a much worse situation than this, with _much_ less options than they do now. He raises the grilled salamander in a salute, and acknowledgment of how hard the captain's been working to keep them all alive.

 

The side of Kirk's mouth quirks up a little in a smile, and he touches his brow to return the salute. Scott still isn't sure how he feels about knowing just how far the man has been pushed in the past, but it's not his job to pass judgment. It's his job to trust his captain. And that's what he plans to do.


	40. Seconds

Lieutenant Leslie dies during the night.

 

McCoy has never felt as useless as he does now. Trapped in a goddamn fishpond, unable to tend to his patients, and a good man has died because of it. Never mind that rationally, he knows there was little they could do for him. That's not important. He wasn't able to make the effort, wasn't able to even _try_ , and that's what cuts the deepest. He doesn't even know about it until Kirk and Uhura come to visit him the following morning.

 

"I'm sorry, Leonard," Uhura says, kneeling at the side of the pond, holding his hand. She doesn't flinch at how disgustingly slimy his scales have been getting, but McCoy pulls his hand from her grip anyway, giving her an apologetic look.

 

"He shouldn't be dead," McCoy says, and he's never hated someone more than he hates Edison right now. If not for him, Leslie would still be alive. If not for this planet's stupid mutation-enhancing radiation, the man would have never had the ability to survive long enough to kill anyone but his own crew. But _goddammit_ , Kirk has a point when he says the guy isn't in his right mind.

 

Kirk is taking the news pretty hard, too, judging by the rigid line of his back as he faces away from the pond, wings half-open like he wants to get the hell out of here, running like he always does. But he's not, not this time. No matter what's going on in that feathery head of his, he's committed to being the captain. And that means caring for what crew he has left, despite another loss. "No. He shouldn't. But he is," he says, turning around to face them.

 

Uhura looks a little hurt that McCoy rejected her attempt to comfort him, but there's understanding in her eyes too. "What do we do now?" she asks, her eyes flicking towards Kirk in uncertainty.

 

Kirk's response is immediate, his tone flat and cold. "We bury him," he says, fixing her with a piercing golden stare. "What, did you think I was going to suggest something else?"

 

Uhura looks startled. "No, captain, I-"

 

McCoy can tell immediately where Kirk's thoughts have gone off the rails, and he jumps to her defense. "Jim, she didn't mean it like that," he says, trying to cut Kirk off before he can get out of hand.

 

Kirk looks like he's about ready to actually haul off and punch McCoy, but the captain closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, visibly forcing himself to calm down. It's a far cry from the hotheaded delinquent that McCoy met on the shuttle in Riverside, all those years ago. "Sorry," he says with genuine remorse. "I know my behavior's been... off, lately. It's not excusable."

 

Uhura looks like she's about to protest, maybe to say that it's okay, but instead she nods and says, "Apology accepted, captain." And thank God she does, because as understandable as Kirk's reactions have been, he needs to be the captain for his crew, which means not flipping out at the drop of a hat, PTSD or not.

 

And to her credit, despite clearly being disturbed by the details of Kirk's past on Tarsus IV, she's holding her composure a hell of a lot better than the captain is. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks him evenly.

 

Kirk is silent for a long moment, and McCoy is convinced that his friend will refuse, like he always does. But the captain looks as surprised as the both of them when he answers, "This isn't as bad as Tarsus was, but it easily could be, if we're here long enough."

 

_Jesus, if this is what it takes for him to talk about what happened, I don't know if this counts as a silver lining to the whole clusterfuck or what._ "Jim, we can both see this has you shook up," McCoy says carefully, although it seems like Kirk is making a conscious effort not to go off the deep end again. "It's more than just losing another member of your crew."

 

And Kirk doesn't deny it. He doesn't make eye contact with them, either, but his wings are fully folded against his back. Only the way his feathers are fluffed up, standing on end, show just how bothered he still is. "It's the way he looked," Kirk says at last. "All skin and bones. That's how everyone was, by the time the rescue ships arrived. I knew he was a dead man the moment Krall got him. It just took a bit longer than he'd intended."

 

McCoy trades glances with Uhura, and she's got the same look on her face that he's sure is on his own. "Captain... just how similar _is_ this to what happened on Tarsus Four?" Uhura asks, choosing her words very cautiously.

 

"That's not... I can't quantify it," Kirk says, scratching at his stubbled cheek. The sensation seems to ground him, a little bit of the wildness leeching out of his eyes. "It's not like it was at the end, but in the early days... it was a lot like this. Limited supplies, not enough local food sources to make up the difference. We had hope that relief ships would arrive before things got too bad. But they didn't. And things got _really_ bad."

 

_Yeah, no shit, if people were literally fucking_ eating _each other._ McCoy doesn't say it out loud, though. There's no politer way to say that, and the wrong sentence could ensure that Kirk never speaks about this again.

 

The captain shakes his head, and he seems unable to stand still, pacing along the shore of the pond. "If we don't get off this planet soon, it could get just as bad here. We're _hundreds_ of predators in an ecosystem not meant to support us, and even with the supplies we managed to save from the _Enterprise_ , it won't be enough to support everyone for more than a few months. I've been down this road before and it is scaring the _shit_ out of me because this time, I'm not just a kid. It's Tarsus all over again, and this time _I'm Kodos_."

 

Holy fuck, this is worse than McCoy thought. Not that the situation is that dire, but that _Jim thinks it is_ , bad enough that he's casting himself in the role of the monster of his childhood nightmares. He surges out of the water, grabbing at Kirk's arm to stop his unsettled pacing. "Jesus Christ, Jim, _no_. You're not Kodos."

 

Kirk stops, but there's an awful tension running through his body, like touching a live wire, and he finally meets McCoy's eyes. "I can't do what he did, Bones. I _won't_. It's not an option and never will be. But their lives are in _my_ hands and I don't have a solution if things _do_ get that bad."

 

Uhura cautiously approaches from Kirk's other side, gently touching his shoulder. The captain flinches, but doesn't run. "You're not alone, captain... Jim. You _are_ responsible for us. But let us help _you_. Please. Don't do this to yourself."

 

"It won't get that bad," McCoy adds, believing it because he has no other choice. "We have the _Franklin_ , and _Yorktown_ isn't that far away. Once we convince the planet to let us go, we'll be fine."

 

But Kirk slowly shakes his head, dropping his gaze again. "I can't trust in that, and risk being wrong. There's too much at stake."

 

"Then let us help you plan," Uhura urges him. "We're not civilians, captain. We don't have to sit by and let you shoulder this burden alone. That's what we're here for. So let us help."

 

Kirk doesn't look up at them, but he doesn't pull away either, and he closes his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. "I'll try."

 

It's not what McCoy wants to hear. But it'll have to do for now. And before he can change his mind, he pulls Kirk into a hug, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight. It takes a minute, but Kirk slowly hugs him back, shaking slightly. "We'll get through this, Jim. All of us."

 

"All of us," Uhura agrees, and the moment McCoy lets go of the captain, she steps in to hug him too. "We're with you, captain."

 

Kirk's eyes are suspiciously wet as he pulls back, and he doesn't reply, just giving a short nod in thanks. He's not all right, and he hasn't been for a long time. But this is a good first step, and McCoy can only hope they'll have the chance to take more.


	41. Loss

It is illogical to wait.

 

Spock has already experienced the unease of leaving things unfinished, of missed opportunities and regret. Yet now that he holds his future counterpart's personal effects yet again, he finds himself hesitating. Again.

 

_Illogical. Irrational. There is no reason to delay._

 

There is little privacy to be found within the cramped confines of the _Franklin_ , particularly now that additional crew have joined them. So he takes the metal case and climbs atop the half-buried saucer of the armored ship, easily finding his footing on the vine-covered surface. It is not isolated, and he can see the immobilized form of helmsman Sulu on the bridge above, just barely visible, but facing away.

 

It is enough.

 

Spock sits down on the hull, the metal barely warmed by the mid-morning sun, and places the case in front of him. His fingers brush over the latches, uncertain. _Foolish. There is nothing to fear._ And yet once this is done, there will be nothing more to learn from the ambassador. No more wisdom to impart, no more tantalizing anecdotes of friendships with shipmates he has and has not met. His destiny is his own, and his counterpart has always insisted as such. He has never questioned this. But the finality leaves him feeling oddly adrift regardless.

 

_Kadiith. There is no purpose in delaying further._

 

Before his more emotional side can talk him out of it, his fingers press the latches to open them.

 

The case is relatively empty, containing only a few personal items, much as his own habit of keeping only that which is most important to him. Spock's hands move across the items, picking them up and examining them one at a time. There is an embroidered square of fabric, an oddly human-style craft that bears the Vulcan philosophy of IDIC in his native script, and his hands tremble minutely as he recognizes it as the work of his mother.

 

Spock gently sets it aside, uncovering the objects below. There is a Vulcan-made sash, little more than a strip of fabric, but he recognizes it as part of the traditional garments belonging to those who are undergoing _kolinahr_. It gives him pause to see it. He, too, once contemplated forsaking his human half in favor of purging his emotions, and it is odd to see evidence of such strict Vulcan discipline next to a very human memento. Judging by the very humanlike expressions his counterpart was prone to using, and the very un-Vulcan attitudes he expressed during their conversations, Spock rather doubts that the ambassador was successful in completing the ritual.

 

_I should ask him about it the next time-_ He stops the thought abruptly before it can finish, suddenly remembering why such a thing is impossible. Illogical. He is fully aware that Ambassador Spock is dead. It is the reason he is currently engaged in looking through the elder's belongings. And yet it is still difficult to accept, for reasons he cannot articulate.

 

He closes his eyes for a moment to re-center himself. There are more items yet to examine, more insight to gain, perhaps.

 

Underneath the _kolinahr_ sash, there is a miniature _asenoi_ , and he realizes with a start that he did not even consider attempting to find his own meditation lamp in his quarters. He has not meditated since the _Enterprise_ was docked at _Yorktown_ , though he is certain he needs it. The events of the past several days have been difficult enough as it is. And now, with a sapient planet observing him, he is not certain he would be able to maintain the proper focus.

 

Still, it is good to have the option available. Spock sets it aside, and reaches for the last item. He does not recognize its design, a strange flat box of some sort, with a sliding hinge. Long fingers press the hidden switch and the device slides open, revealing an aged printed image of seven humanoids, dressed in red. For a moment, he does not comprehend, the uniform style unfamiliar despite the presence of Starfleet's crest. But then he sees the ambassador, decades younger than Spock knew him yet decades older than himself at present, and it falls into place.

 

And now that he is truly looking, it is difficult not to see it. Sulu stands tall and proud, and the younger, dark-haired man at his side is almost unfamiliar if not for the mischievous youthful expression that is unmistakable as belonging to Chekov. Scott has aged perhaps the most, his hair mostly silver, and his chosen facial hair style makes him appear a bit more distinguished than the frazzled, half-mad appearance Spock is used to seeing. McCoy is instantly recognizable from his gills alone, his face lined with age, but relaxed with a sort of easy, mellowed contentment that the Vulcan has never seen him exhibit. Nyota has aged beautifully, her pose strong and secure, expressing her self-confidence in an entirely familiar manner.

 

Which means the man in the center seat must be Kirk. It is strange to see him bereft of his natural gifts once more, lacking the magnificent golden brown wings that Spock has become accustomed to seeing since Khan's serum restored them to his captain. But there is a happiness in his eyes, a satisfaction with his position in life... or perhaps in the company he keeps.

 

They are more than a crew. They are a family.

 

Spock cannot tear his eyes away from the image. It is like looking at a reflection, everything subtly off, yet comfortingly familiar. It is a tantalizing glimpse at a life he has already lived, in some other universe, and a possibility of what may yet be to come. And that his counterpart chose to carry this with him, that he had it with him when he traveled back to the year 2258, means that he must have always taken this reminder of his deceased shipmates with him, wherever he went.

 

" _Lesek, kevet-dutar Spock,_ " he murmurs, gently closing the hinged image case and placing it back among the ambassador's personal items. " _Rom-halan_."

 

It is not what he was expecting to find, but he finds that he is not disappointed or unfulfilled. His heart aches in his side for the loss of his counterpart, and grieves with his memory for the loss of those he cared for. And yet there is a contentment also, a calm serenity that comes with knowing that there is no more to be said, that no more is necessary.

 

It is enough.


	42. Sympathy

Krall has only one day left to live, but Jaylah is not thinking of him right now. The Starfleets that she has welcomed into her house have given her much more to think about than the eater of her family, though the knowledge always lurks in the back of her mind, stalking her thoughts as Krall did in life.

 

No, today she has much to consider.

 

She could hardly believe her eyes when she saw the wreck of their house, the ship they call _Enterprise_. Never in her life has she seen one so big, and they tell her that it was bigger before the bees cut it into pieces and smashed it against the planet. Now she truly understands why there are so many Starfleets. A house that big could easily hold four hundred of them, though she doubts there are that many still alive. Their house was very damaged, with big holes in its skin. She does not know much of travel in space, but she does know that there is no air above the sky.

 

And now... now they tell her that their houses were brought down because this planet is alive, and it is lonely.

 

It is almost too much to believe. A planet with feelings? But she does not know of many planets, and the Starfleets speak with confidence, so she has to believe it.

 

It does explain some things to her. Why the bees only damaged their houses, instead of destroying them. Why the bees refuse to let anyone leave. Why she sometimes feels as though something is watching her, even when she knew that Krall was far away.

 

Jaylah has lived on its skin for years, and she cannot help but picture herself as the tiny bugs that sometimes land on her bare arms when she is outside her house. Does it know her, she wonders? Or is it like the bugs, where they are barely worth noticing, not big enough to eat and not dangerous enough to kill or scare away?

 

She cannot know the answer. She can speak to the planet, but she has spoken to herself many times and never heard the planet speak back. It makes no difference if she does this now.

 

But there is one new thing that may help her understand.

 

She climbs the ravine outside her house, her body remembering where to grab and pull to ascend quickly, moving on instinct. At the top, Heekaru Sulu still kneels, very much like a tree now. The leaves on his head rustle as he looks up toward her, and he looks surprised to see her. "Oh, hi Jaylah."

 

"Hello, Heekaru Sulu," she greets him. She briefly turns, scanning the land around them for any threats. It is habit, though she knows Krall is held captive in her house below. Satisfied that there is no danger, she kneels in front of him and places her staff between them. Her memories of her people's culture are old and difficult to remember, but she vaguely recalls that this is a gesture of peace, of wanting to talk with another. "James Tee tells me you speak with the planet."

 

He looks more surprised, then understanding, and he tilts his head to her. "Yeah, sort of. It's not really words, not without Commander Spock helping. But I have a pretty good idea how it's feeling right now."

 

Jaylah leans forward a little, fascinated. _So it is true._ It is one thing to hear it from another, and it is another thing to hear it from a source. "Does it know you?" she asks.

 

Heekaru Sulu considers her question, and a strange expression crosses his alien face. "In a way, I guess. It knows I'm here, and it likes that I can hear it. I'm not sure it really understands that we don't want to be here though. It's like a child."

 

She is a little concerned to see water leaking from his eyes, and without thinking, she reaches forward to touch his face. "This makes you sad," she says. She does not know him well, but he is one of the first people she has seen alive in a long time. And she can see his pain of missing whatever family waits for him away from this place.

 

He reaches up to wipe his eyes, wincing as his rough hands scrape his face. "Yeah. It reminds me of my daughter, Demora, a little bit. She has a hard time understanding why I can't be home more."

 

Jaylah's eyes soften as she listens. These Starfleets have strange words and customs, but in a way they are very much like her own people. She has no trouble trying to imagine how Heekaru Sulu's daughter must feel at being away from her father, or how it must feel for the father to be away from those he loves. The pain of loss is one that she knows well, more than she ever wanted. "The planet feels this too?"

 

"Yeah. It had people, a long time ago, but then they left. Or died. We don't know. But that's why it wants us to stay. It's afraid of being alone."

 

Jaylah shivers, her body shaking for a moment against her will. She knows this fear. She has lived it for many years. Others came sometimes, but they all died, sooner or later. Before the Starfleets arrived, she never met any that she might be able to call friends. "I am sad for it." It does not give this living planet the right to hold them all here, but she does not know how to stop it either.

 

She has taken a chance on befriending these aliens. Perhaps it is right to do the same with this alien planet. After all, she has spent years with it, though she has never been able to hear it. "Does it have a name?" she asks.

 

Heekaru Sulu looks surprised by the question. "No, I don't think so. I don't know if it understands what names are. Do you... want to name it?" he asks, a strange note in his voice. "You've been here the longest. You know it better than we do."

 

Jaylah, in turn, is surprised by the question. And as she considers the idea, it seems fitting indeed. "There is a story my mother told me when I was young," she says. "A great warrior, searching for her people, never to find them. Her name was Altamyd."

 

He manages to smile a little. "That sounds really appropriate."

 

Her smiles matches his, not one of joy, but sad understanding. "Yes. It is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a problem uploading this chapter so I had to delete and reupload. Sorry if this shows up twice!


	43. Truce

Around midday, Kirk calls his senior officers together for another meeting up on the edge of the ravine. This time, Jaylah joins them, effortlessly finding her place in the circle of seated personnel next to Scott, her staff placed on the ground in front of her.

 

Kirk doesn't sit down, not at first anyway. There's one massive elephant in the room that needs to be addressed before they can get down to business, and he takes a deep breath to center himself before turning to face them. "Before we begin, I want to apologize for my conduct at our last staff meeting. I took out my frustrations on you all, and that was inappropriate of me."

 

"Your reaction was quite understandable, captain," Spock answers smoothly, raising one eyebrow. "As you brought to my attention several days ago, we are all emotionally compromised to some degree."

 

"Be that as it may, Spock, it wasn't okay for me to dump all that on you," Kirk says, crossing his arms over his chest. His wings twitch against his back and he fights the urge to fly away again, his heart pounding in his chest. _I am done running away from this. It won't do any good if I avoid the subject, not when they already know._ "So let's get this out of the way. Yes, I've done things to survive that I'm not proud of, and never want to think about, and I don't expect anyone else to have to fight my demons for me. I don't expect that it sits easy with you, knowing what I've done." His voice almost breaks, and he stops a moment, regaining control. "If it bothers you to the point where you no longer want me to serve as captain, tell me now," he says before he can change his mind, and swallows down the dread that comes with it. "I'll step down."

 

His officers share disturbed looks, but it's Chekov who answers first, his projected emotions a mix of concern and distaste, but there's a strong, almost overpowering tone of trust and faith that supersedes the negative. "Keptin. It is not _you_ that bothers us, sir, but knowing that you vere put in that situation at all, and at such a young age. Ve understand completely vhy you do not speak of it, and from what I know of the Tarsus Four disaster, you and the other colonists vere justified in making use of vhat you had."

 

"I cannae deny it makes me look at you a bit differently, captain," Scott says, brow furrowed in concern. "But not in the way ye think, sir. We're still with you, no matter what horrors you suffered."

 

"You're our best chance of getting out of here, sir," Sulu adds, raising his chin, almost defiant of how he expects Kirk to react. "You told me we'd all get out of this alive, and I still believe that."

 

Even though Uhura has already given him her support in private, she still speaks up too. "We won't leave you, captain. Whatever happens, we're still your crew."

 

Kirk can't speak past the lump in his throat, caught completely flat-footed at the unanimous show of support. After the whispers and rumors that flew around the Federation after the relief ships arrived at Tarsus IV, he'd expected condemnation from _someone_. But his senior staff, his _family_ , still stand at his side, a unified front of trust in his ability to lead them safely home. He's never known this feeling before, and some small part of him recognizes that _this_ is what he has been missing all his life. This simple feeling of love, from people who truly believe in him.

 

For a moment, he considers trying to cover his lapse with his usual confident grin, but he can't quite manage it as he wipes unshed tears from his eyes. _I really do have the best crew in the fleet. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to leave them?_

 

" _I told you they wouldn't say otherwise, you idiot,_ " McCoy grumbles over the communicator, but there's no sting to his insults this time. " _Now let's get this thing underway already._ "

 

Kirk involuntarily lets out a choked laugh, and he takes a seat on the ground with the others, finally completing the unbroken circle. He clears his throat, and it takes a few attempts before he can speak. "All right. Sulu, Spock, your reports on progress befriending the planet."

 

"Slow going," Sulu answers, ever the professional, as if the whole awkward subject had never come up in the first place. "Without Commander Spock's help, I can't really _talk_ to Altamyd, but it is listening to us."

 

"Altamyd?" Kirk asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "You named it?"

 

"I did," Jaylah says, looking up at him as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Named for a warrior of my people, one who is always alone."

 

"The planet... Altamyd... is still reluctant to let us leave, captain," Spock reports, acknowledging the name with a nod toward Jaylah. "We have had little success in leading it to accept our desire to depart. I must confess that I am quite at a loss as to how to properly articulate our needs in a manner it will understand. Furthermore, if Altamyd cannot be convinced to allow us our freedom within the next week, Starfleet may send out search parties to locate the _Enterprise_ , and they may be marooned here also."

 

Kirk frowns, a part of him somewhat grateful to have a problem to focus on, even one that is causing them this much trouble. It helps keep the darker thoughts at bay. "There's got to be some kind of common ground between us. Uh, no pun intended," he adds. "Spock... I hate to bring it up, but you lost your planet and its people, and that was horrible, but you've managed to find a way to keep going. Maybe if..."

 

Spock's expressions are subtle, but Kirk has long since been able to read him like a book, and there is sadness in his dark eyes. But he nods. "Perhaps. I will make the attempt, captain."

 

Kirk reaches over and grabs Spock's shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze. "It's worth a shot. Thank you." He drops his hand before the Vulcan can get too uncomfortable with the contact, and turns to Scott. "Scotty, how are the repairs going? Do we have an estimate on when the _Franklin_ will be ready to fly?"

 

"She's in rough shape, but if there are no complications, she should be spaceworthy in four more days," Scott reports, scratching his head. "She'll have no artificial gravity and no weapons, but life support is up and running, and the engines should be fixed enough to make it to _Yorktown_ with room ta spare. Of course, I cannae be sure all the hull breaches are patched until we get her properly airborne, so a test flight would be a good idea before she goes on her next voyage, sir."

 

Kirk nods, taking all that into consideration. "Chekov, we'll need you to fly her. Are you up to it?"

 

Surprise ripples out from the young ensign. "Me, keptin?"

 

"I can't do it," Sulu says, leaves rustling as he shrugs. "If anybody can find their way back out of this nebula and back, it's you."

 

Chekov's cheeks redden slightly, and modest embarrassment flickers through them all. "I can do zat."

 

"You'll do great," Kirk says, giving him an encouraging smile. Then he turns his gaze to Uhura. "And what about you, Uhura? The _Franklin_ needs a commanding officer with bridge experience. Are you ready for the center seat?"

 

Her eyes widen in surprise at the unexpected offer. "You're not going?"

 

Kirk shakes his head and spreads his wings a little, making a point. "The seat's not designed for these. And even if it was, I can't leave anyone behind, not when I can help keep them alive."

 

"I likewise cannot go," Spock adds, his eyes showing a hint of regret. "Thus far, Altamyd has only been able to be directly contacted through the Vulcan mind meld. It would be illogical to remove our only method of communication with the planet by placing me in command."

 

Uhura looks uncertain, but she's clearly touched by her captain's faith in her, and she nods. "I can do it, captain. I'll keep the chair warm for you."

 

This meeting has gone so much better than the last one, with good news all around. It's not enough to make him confident in their success, because anything can still go wrong, but it's a start. And he hates to drag down the optimistic mood, but he has to. Kirk turns to Jaylah now, giving her a questioning look. "Last order of business is what to do about Edison. You told me you'd think about it."

 

Jaylah bares her teeth in a grimace. "Yes. I said this thing," she agrees reluctantly.

 

Scott glances back and forth between the two of them, frowning. "Think about what, exactly?"

 

"Alternatives to simply killing him," Kirk answers, though he doesn't take his eyes away from Jaylah, trying to gauge how she feels about this. It's not like he doesn't know how it feels to want to avenge a parent's death, after all. "Bones, if we take Edison back to _Yorktown_ with us, what're the chances he'll ever live a normal life again?"

 

" _Truthfully? Probably zero,_ " McCoy answers honestly. " _If he's not being treated for his long laundry list of mental health issues in an institution for the rest of his life, he's gonna be locked up in a Federation prison somewhere. Depends on how competent he is to stand trial. And that's assuming he'll live long enough once he gets off this rock._ "

 

Jaylah looks uncertain, dropping her amber gaze to the ground in front of her. "It is not right, to let him live. Krall is danger, to everyone. You let him live, he kills again. Maybe not this day, but some day."

 

"Not likely," Scott tells her. "Modern Federation prison facilities have anti-mutation field generators that block active power usage. Anything passive, such as the captain's wings, aren't affected on account of them being a part of him. But something that requires a conscious decision to use, like Yeoman Barrows' fire powers, can't activate. So no matter how hard Edison tries, he won't be able to suck the life outta anyone."

 

Jaylah frowns across the circle at him. "Why you do not do this now?"

 

"The _Franklin_ is too old for this technology," Spock says. "It does not have a proper brig, and the one from the _Enterprise_ is not compatible with a smaller ship. Edison is a risk at present, but once he is transferred to _Yorktown_ 's facilities, he will be rendered relatively harmless."

 

Jaylah is silent as she considers this, and she finally raises her head to look at Kirk. "I do not like letting him live. He does not deserve this. But you say he will still suffer? That he will not be free."

 

"You have my word on that," Kirk promises her.

 

She bares her teeth again, unhappily. But eventually, she nods. "Then this is what will happen. Unless he is danger before this. Then I kill him."

 

"Fair enough," Kirk agrees.


	44. Persuasion

It has been alone for so long. Drifting through space, wrapped in red and purple gases, slowly revolving around a lonely star. An eternity away from any other life, save for the tiny pinpoints of life that migrate across its skin. Every now and then, a cluster of life comes close enough for its tendrils to ensnare them, and though some of those lives are snuffed out in the catching, there are always more.

 

But it's still never enough.

 

And one by one, as time goes on, those tiny points of life flicker and fade, and die. Some might grow deep enough to touch it, to recognize it, but it never lasts. It revels in the initial excitement, the surprise and shock of realization, hoping that this time, maybe things will be different. Maybe this time, one of the tiny lives will reach out to it and _stay_.

 

They never have.

 

It loses track of the time, unable to tell how long it has done this, how many times the cycle has repeated. How many lives have walked on its skin, their time all too short, before they become part of the dust. But even though every time, it ends the same... it can't stop.

 

Can't give up the hope that maybe this time, things will be different. Can't resign itself to the idea that it will always be alone, so achingly desperately _lonely_ , doomed to slowly spin in the void with no hope, no future, no one to talk to or reach.

 

And when the roots of the one called Sulu reach deep into its skin, and there's that spark of recognition, its core cries out in distressed agony. _Please, this time be different. Stay with me. Don't leave me in this universe alone._

 

The one called Sulu is frightened, but the tiny flicker of life is brave, and it watches as Sulu reaches out to the other lives, communing so effortlessly with them that it makes it cry out into the silence. It is something that it will never have, and it despairs.

 

But then, there is a new thing, something it has never felt before. Another life, its mind strange as it brushes against it, reaching out _with_ the one called Sulu, and it learns that this new life is called Spock. And for the first time it can recall since its first lives left it, something looks _back_ at it, and it feels a thrill of joy that it is being _seen_!

 

 _Stay with me,_ it pleads again. And it does not understand when the one called Spock sends regret and refusal. Why? Why does it not want to stay?

 

And as the lives commune, it feels a new surge of fear and desperation. Perhaps all this time, the lives have left because they do not like it. Maybe there is something wrong with it, something horrible. Maybe it was never meant to be this way, and whatever awakened it so long ago was wrong to do so.

 

It spins amongst the red and purple, fearing the next touch, afraid that the one called Spock will reject it completely. That the lives will choose to flicker out, as they always do, and it will again be alone. Forever.

 

It doesn't know how much times passes before it feels the one called Spock reaching out again. It is terrified at what the little life will tell it, but it is even more terrified of being alone again. And even if the one called Spock rejects it... at least it will be contact with another.

 

_Stay?_

 

 _We cannot,_ the one called Spock says, its tone colored with regret. _We are not meant to live under these conditions. It is not right to hold us here against our will, Altamyd._

 

It does not understand, but there is one thing that it does realize. The one called Spock has given it a name too. No life has ever done that before, not that it can remember. _Why?_

 

 _Because we are all sentient beings,_ the one called Spock answers, and the one now called Altamyd can tell that it is carefully considering its words. _Altamyd... may I share something with you?_

 

It wants to cry out in joy. No life has ever offered to share anything with it, no matter what the message is. _Yes!_

 

It expects more words and feelings, but instead, its infinite senses seem to expand, and its forests and rivers disappear. Instead, it is blazing hot, sandy deserts stretching across its skin as it spins around a bright, hot star. Countless points of life commune on its surface, and the one called Altamyd is in awe. Never has it felt so many lives, such serenity emanating from them, in harmony with their planet in a way that it has never dreamed of.

 

 _What is this?_ it demands of the one called Spock, hungry for more.

 

The answer is full of sadness. _My homeworld, Vulcan. Home to six billion of my people, until it was destroyed._

 

The deserts vanish, and the one called Altamyd reels with the shock of being compressed into an unfathomably small point, the countless lives on its skin snuffed out in a matter of moments. It is horrifying, and it wails soundlessly at the destruction.

 

 _Yes,_ the one called Spock agrees, its voice full of eternal grief. _They all perished._

 

It is an incalculable loss, and the one called Altamyd cannot comprehend the depth of it. _Why? You know what it is to be alone. Why deny me this?_

 

_My people have a saying. What is, is. If something has happened, it cannot un-happen. You must learn to accept it, to cope to the best of your ability, and let go of the past. My people are gone. So are yours. Nothing can replace them, no matter how many sentient creatures you bring to yourself. It will never be the same as it was._

 

The one called Altamyd cries, water weeping from its atmosphere, trying to drown out the fleeting memory of scorching desert heat. This cannot be true. There is no other path ahead that is not one wrapped in miserable solitude.

 

The one called Spock reaches out with a gentle touch. _I am truly sorry. But we cannot be what you wish us to be. And if we stay here, we will eventually die._ It is a speck against the darkness, a tiny pinpoint of light shining brightly, but the comfort it gives is beyond measure, the first comfort it has ever known. _If you allow us to depart, some of our people will return of their own free will. You are a unique and beautiful being, Altamyd. Never before have we seen one such as you. If you agree to release us, we will send scientific survey teams to study you. You need not be alone forever. Let us make the choice._

 

It feels a flicker of hope, then. Whatever its flaws, whatever its mistakes, whatever wrong it has done to them, these tiny lives still reach out in friendship, a lone light in the void. A promise of more.

 

_Yes._


	45. Storm

Kirk usually doesn't mind rain. He rather likes it, actually. Standing out in a downpour is a far more dignified way to keep his wings clean than doing it birdbath style, and the fresh smell of rain on dry earth is one you never get on a starship, reminding him of wide open spaces and freedom of flight. It feels like renewal.

 

However, he normally expects a little warning.

 

They're halfway through constructing shelters out of scraps of the _Enterprise_. The deck plates were a good call; they're wide enough to serve as walls and sturdy enough that the wind won't knock them over, though they're too heavy to safely use as roofing material. For that, they'll need good old-fashioned natural materials, and though it's a bit embarrassing to admit, it's so much like building a nest that he instinctively knows exactly what to do.

 

They're going to be the ugliest shelters ever built, but it's what they have, and they'll do the job until rescue ships can arrive. Whenever that might be.

 

Kirk is just starting to lift an armful of suitable branches when the hazy, patchy clouds in the sky above him abruptly open up and let loose a ridiculous deluge of rainwater.

 

"What the hell?" he blurts out, sweeping his wings forward and upward to shelter his head from the sudden rainstorm. It's awkward as hell, but it's not like he has an umbrella. Lightning flashes, accompanied immediately by the deafening crack of thunder. _Well, that's not good._ A forest is the last place he wants to be during a thunderstorm, and there's no good place to take cover, not that he had known he was going to need it.

 

He breaks out into a run, heading back towards the _Franklin_ as the storm soaks him nearly to the bone, despite the water-resistant survival uniform. Then, as suddenly as it began, the rain starts to ease off to a light drizzle, just as the edge of the ravine comes into view. There's Sulu, rooted right where he's been for the last three days, and Spock kneeling in front of him, his fingers placed precisely on Sulu's psi-points.

 

Both of them look up at his approach, and they're just as drenched as he is. "Captain," Spock greets him. "My apologies. Altamyd is... upset."

 

"Oh, is _that_ what this is." Kirk shakes his wings, but it doesn't seem to do much good, dripping rainwater everywhere. "What the hell did you say to it?"

 

It's hard to tell with all the rain, but Kirk swears he can see a suspiciously emotional dampness in Spock's eyes. Sulu makes no attempt to conceal that he's crying, deeply affected by whatever passed between them in the mind meld.

 

"I showed it Vulcan," Spock says simply.

 

"Ah." Yeah, that'd explain it. He hates to ask, feeling massively insensitive, but he has to know. "Did it work?"

 

"I believe so," Spock reports, and he clasps his hands behind his back, though not before Kirk notices they're trembling a bit. He politely pretends that he never saw that. "At the moment, it is willing to let us go, provided that a scientific survey team returns. I cannot say whether it will still be agreeable once the time arrives, of course, but I believe we can push it no further at this time."

 

"He's right," Sulu adds, regaining enough of his composure to speak. "Altamyd is freaking out about this. But I got the feeling that it _wants_ to trust us."

 

Kirk raises his eyebrows at that, and gives his wings another ineffectual shake. "Well, let's not disappoint it. Here's hoping we get volunteers in a timely manner." He gives up and leaves his waterlogged wings partly open, sagging a little under the extra weight of the water trapped between his feathers. _I probably look like a drowned pigeon._ Fortunately, he's fairly confident his crew won't judge him for that. "You okay?" he asks Sulu.

 

Sulu nods, creaking like a tree in a windstorm. "Yeah. It's just... intense."

 

"Emotional transference is a side effect of ordinary mind melds," Spock explains. "This has... not been ordinary. The planetary entity is linked to Lieutenant Sulu, so all contact is filtered directly through his senses. It is unavoidable. Whatever Altamyd feels, we both experience in full, and vice versa."

 

The light rain continues, and Kirk fails to suppress a shiver at the chill. "And it's crying?"

 

"Indeed," Spock agrees, nodding. Attentive eyes miss nothing, however. "Captain, we should seek shelter. This weather is likely to continue for some time, and Doctor McCoy will be most displeased with both of us if your health is compromised."

 

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, though it's a near thing. "I'll just blame you for making the planet cry, Spock." A crack of thunder interrupts him before he can say any more, though. "But I'll take that under advisement."

 

"I'm glad I'm not taller," Sulu says, but there's a tremor in his voice that belies his brave attitude. "Or standing up."

 

Dammit. That is a real concern, and there's precisely nothing that they can do about it. No lightning rods, no force fields, no nothing. "I hate leaving you out here like this," Kirk tells him, cursing the fact that helplessness has been his only option for the vast majority of last week.

 

"Can't say I'm a fan either," Sulu agrees, but he doesn't look like he's bitter about it. "But it's all right, captain. You're not abandoning me or anything. I know you'll always come back for me."

 

As if the planet has heard them, the rain intensifies again into a steady downpour. Kirk hesitates, then turns to Spock. "Any chance you can ask it to put a lid on the lightning?"

 

Spock blinks once, and inclines his head. "I can make an attempt." He kneels next to Sulu again and places his hand on the helmsman's face, their expressions smoothing over into the eerie calm of the mind meld.

 

Kirk steps forward, sheltering them from the rain with outstretched wings. It's the least he can do.

 

And just as soon as it began, the lightning stops, leaving only the rain, washing them in the hopeful tears of Altamyd.


	46. Preparations

A lot can change in a short time. Jaylah knows this better than many people, but she never expected how drastically her life has changed since the crash of _Enterprise_. Before they came, she was alone, with only the sounds of the world and her music to fill the empty spaces. Her days were spent hunting and fishing, fixing her house or learning from its memories, and keeping careful watch for Krall coming to eat her. It was a hard life, to be so alone, to worry every day about whether or not she would find enough food or be food herself.

 

But now, everything is different.

 

Her small house is not alone anymore. The Starfleets have built more houses on the land close to hers, made from pieces of their _Enterprise_ and covered with branches and leaves. She has heard them calling these houses ugly, but Jaylah does not think so. They are made from what is here, what is useful and good, so it does not matter what they look like.

 

And with the arrival of the Starfleets, there is a lot more noise. Not the same kind as the music she likes, with the beats and shouting. It's the noise of many people in one place, living and working together. It is a kind of sound she has not heard in a very long time, and sometimes she has to hide herself in the narrow places of her house so she can be alone for a while, and lets her feelings come out of her eyes and her heart.

 

Montgomery Scotty has found her a few times when she has done this. The first time, she worries that he will say something to make it worse. Maybe laugh at her. But he does not do this. He looks at her with those dark alien eyes and he understands, covering her sounds of sadness with music, or just sitting with her in silence.

 

She has never had a friend before.

 

And now she has many. It is difficult to trust, after so long alone. She has met other survivors before, and every single one either betrayed her or died at Krall's hands. But these Starfleets seem different somehow. They do not demand that she help them without offering anything in return, and they sometimes offer things to her without wanting her to do something for them. They do not look at her like a tool to be used, and they do not treat her like a child who does not know what she wants. When they look at her, she sees respect in their faces, the same way they look at each other.

 

She asks James Tee why, when they are leaving to hunt together. He looks at her as if the answer was obvious, regarding her with golden predator's eyes. The way he moves has become more certain as time has passed, as the golden mane of feathers on top of his head have become more magnificent, giving him a savage kind of grace. She wants to shiver under his gaze, her chest full of strange feelings. "You've survived on this planet alone for God knows how many years. You taught yourself an alien language just from listening to ship's logs. You practically fixed a starship single-handedly, and the only reason you didn't finish is because you didn't have the right parts. And you put aside revenge when we asked you to, to try a better way. You're a strong young lady, Jaylah. Not everyone can do what you did."

 

She frowns, taking his words into her heart. Her understanding of their language has gotten much better now that she has people to speak with, so the words come easier now, and she does not have to think so much to find the right ones. "This is special?"

 

James Tee reaches out and places both his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes. "Yeah, it is. _You_ are special, Jaylah. A person like you, you can do anything you want. You just haven't had the opportunity yet."

 

That stops her. She has been focused for so long on wanting to leave this place that she has given little thought to what comes _after_. And as she thinks on it now, she realizes that she truly does not know. She was so young when her parents' house crashed here, she does not know where her people live, or how to get there. And what does she know of other planets, away from here? Just the thought of living someplace where she does not need to hunt for her next meal is almost impossible to imagine. It is all she has known for most of her life.

 

Jaylah looks at James Tee, uncertain what she is going to say, and no words come. But he gives her a small smile as though he has heard her anyway, and lets go of her, gesturing for her to take the lead as they head towards the forest, her favored hunting grounds. "Scotty says the _Franklin_ should be ready to fly soon," he says to her. "You're not gonna be around for me to ask after that, so if it's all right with you, we should visit _all_ your usual haunts. Just in case it takes a while for the rescue ships to get here."

 

He surprises her again. "You will not ask me to stay?" she asks warily. As nicely as the Starfleets have treated her so far, a part of her still expected that they would use her and take her house away, looking to their own wants before hers.

 

But James Tee simply shrugs, his folded wings lifting from the force of it. "It's your house, and you've been working towards this for a long time. I figured you'd want to get out of here as soon as you could."

 

"Your figuring is correct," she agrees. Jaylah does not understand these aliens and their strange ways, unlike anything she has known since her parents died. They think so unlike the others she has met in her life, full of compassion even for monsters such as Krall, despite their shared revulsion for his eating of the living. Her time on Altamyd has taught her to use everything available to her to survive, no matter if it is taking supplies from crashes or resorting to eating the dead when the alternative is to starve to death. She has come to learn that James Tee has done the same, and it is as taboo to his people as it is to hers. But she has seen them give him unwavering, unconditional support despite this. They understand that it is something that was a _need_ , not a want, and this matters.

 

And, she must reluctantly admit to herself, perhaps Krall truly began this way too. It is the only reason she did not insist on killing him when she said she would, agreeing to their gentler punishment for his horrible deeds.

 

The Starfleet way is a strange one. But it may be one that she can live by. What other choice does she truly have?

 

"James Tee," she says quietly, drawing his attention, "when my house flies and we all return to your territory, will I be special enough to join your Starfleet?"

 

His head turns quickly to look at her, and he bares his teeth at her in a surprised smile. "If that's what you want, we'd be glad to have you."

 

Jaylah does not understand. She has given them little, and they have given her everything. And it is a strange thing to be _wanted_ , but it lights a fire in her chest, and she finds herself smiling back at the kindred soul beside her. "I will try."

 

It is a strange feeling. But she knows she will get used to it.


	47. Settling

Gray fog shrouds the land far below like a blanket, dotted here and there with taller trees poking their leafy tops through the mist. The world is nearly silent, save for the wind, and the slow flapping of enormous wings. Kirk glides without needing to pierce through the fog below, having learned the shape of the local air currents over the course of the last week, following their familiar course back to the nest.

 

The main nest, he corrects himself. The camp that the _Enterprise_ crew has built next to the _Franklin_ and McCoy's pond is the first and biggest, currently housing one hundred forty-six survivors. The large concentration of people makes Kirk a bit nervous, but it helps to know that it's temporary. Tomorrow, once the _Franklin_ passes Scott's flight checks, eighty-five members of the crew will depart the surface of Altamyd for _Yorktown_. Of course, they'll also be taking a fifth of the salvaged supplies with them, as well as the transporters and central communications.

 

Which is why he's spent the last three days making sure that all three satellite camps are staffed and stocked well enough to survive independently for at least a week. Separated by thirty-five kilometers each, spread out along the banks of the long winding river that cuts through the surface of the planet, the camps hold all that remain of his brave, beloved crew. An average of sixty-five at each camp, and that's all.

 

Spock did the math for him, and the numbers are simultaneously encouraging and crushing. The _Enterprise_ once carried four hundred and thirty crew. There are three hundred and forty-three confirmed survivors, more than Kirk had initially hoped to recover, and every one of them is precious to him.

 

But it also means that there are eighty-seven crew unaccounted for. Twenty percent of his men and women, either lost somewhere on the surface of Altamyd, or - more likely - died in the crash, or the attack that preceded it. Even one casualty is a horrible loss, but to lose one out of every five crewmen... and almost none of them are going to get a proper burial, with no way to find or recover the bodies.

 

He can't let himself dwell on it. There are over three hundred people still depending on him to get them through this, to get them off this planet and back to Federation space, and safety. And if there's one thing that Tarsus IV taught him, it's how to focus on survival above all else.

 

He can do that. Hell, if he's brave enough to admit it to himself, there's a part of him that _likes_ it. Giving in to a more primal side of his soul, so strong now after more than a week planetside, taking his place as the apex predator of this ecosystem. No need to worry about galactic politics, or Starfleet regulations, or living up to his father's legacy. Just him and his flock, _surviving_.

 

The rest of him thinks that's fucking terrifying.

 

He senses the change in the air currents which mean the ravine is coming up, and he angles his wings to descend, swooping silently down through the fog to land flawlessly on the bank of the pond near the main camp. There's a loud splash of water as McCoy startles at his sudden appearance. "Jesus, Jim! Warn a guy."

 

Kirk feels a sudden surge of guilt as he looks at his friend. Here he is, actually _enjoying_ the freedom that this planet has brought him, while the doctor is confined to something little better than an organic fishbowl, unable to breathe in ordinary air anymore, mutated almost to the point of being unrecognizable.

 

But the look on McCoy's face is the same one he usually wears, disgruntled with their less-than-ideal circumstances yet trusting that his friend and captain will find them a way out. Expecting the worst, and hoping for the best. "Everyone all set?" he asks, raising the scaled ridge that used to be an eyebrow, then briefly ducks under the water enough to take a breath.

 

Kirk nods, rolling his shoulders to settle his wings against his back. "As much as they're gonna be. Supplies are more or less evenly distributed, there are at least two medical personnel in every camp, and Jaylah gave us all a crash course in edible plants and trap-making. All things considered... we're in decent shape, as long as rescue comes before winter does."

 

McCoy gives him a look, clearly not trusting his more optimistic outlook on the situation. Kirk doesn't really blame him; it was only a few days ago that the captain was freaking out about this. But his mind has had a chance to get a fucking grip already, thanks to both time and instinct taking over, so he'll be fine. Or so he tells himself, anyway.

 

"When is that, anyway?" McCoy asks. "Winter, that is."

 

Kirk runs a hand through his head-feathers, the sensation becoming far more familiar than he'd like. The crest has slowly grown, now reaching past the collar of his jacket, down his spine. It hasn't merged with the base of his wings yet, but he figures that's just a matter of time. If they're lucky, they won't be here long enough to find out just how far his feathers plan to spread. "Jaylah's never been able to make a proper calendar, but she's guessing it'll start getting significantly cold around seventy days from now."

 

McCoy grimaces. "Great. I'll be a fishsicle, unless you've got a pool heater stashed away somewhere."

 

Kirk shakes his head. "Sorry, Bones, no such luck. But if it comes to that, we'll think of something. Unless you want leave on the _Franklin_."

 

It isn't the first time Kirk has asked. Aside from the personnel required to operate the ship, the rest of the crew complement chosen for the trip consist mainly of those in greatest need of medical attention, and mutants whose powers have increased to the point where their health - mental or otherwise - is being threatened by their mutations.

 

The captain should probably be one of them. But he left the _Enterprise_ before it was completely abandoned, and he _refuses_ to leave his crew behind again. He'll be the last man off this planet, even if he has to fight for it.

 

And McCoy won't leave without him either.

 

The doctor makes a face. "Yeah, I don't think so, Jim. What're you gonna do, fill an EVA suit with water and stick me in it? No thanks. That's gonna get unsanitary _fast_."

 

Kirk can't help a small smile off his face. Much as he wants to see McCoy evacuated and working on a way to get them all back to normal, he has to appreciate the man's loyalty and stubbornness. "Good point. Guess I'm stuck with you."

 

McCoy grunts, but there's no real bite behind it. "Yeah, you are. Get used to it."


	48. Escape

For nearly a hundred years, the USS _Franklin_ has sat on the surface of Altamyd, half-buried beneath the dirt and rock, vines growing up her decrepit hull over time, all but concealing her from view. And as she has become buried in the growth of the world, she has faded from memory until even her own captain no longer knew her.

 

The ridge above her resting place has stood barren for a long time, too. Now a tree grows against his will, kneeling alone as his roots grip the earth, tapping into the heart of the planet.

 

Today, he doesn't stand alone.

 

Dozens of Starfleet officers stand on the edge of the ravine, and an excited tension hangs in the air around them. Even if they aren't all leaving today, this is the day the _Franklin_ will finally fly again. It's the best news they've had since the _Enterprise_ fell from the sky, and one more step towards going home.

 

Lieutenant Vel-Nyota Uhura sits in the captain's chair, and fastens the heavy metal restraint belts around her shoulders and waist, ignoring the nervous flutter in her chest. She's served on the bridge of Starfleet's flagship for five years now, but she has never sat in the center seat, never commanded an entire portion of the crew. Nor has she ever really desired command, not in the way her captain practically lives for it, and it's still a bit of a shock to realize that he gave it up to _her_ so easily.

 

But the captain has faith in her, and regardless of the way she feels about the job, she won't fail him. It isn't even an option.

 

The _Franklin_ 's command chair has very simple controls available, but shipboard communication is fortunately one of them, and in that, she's in her element. "Attention, this is acting captain Uhura speaking. We will be launching in five minutes. All stations, report ready."

 

The ship is so much smaller than the one who has been her home, so the messages are far fewer than the normal amount she has to deal with. But they are vital, all the same. Scott reports ready to launch, as does Chapel in the small Sickbay, after securing her patients.

 

On the bridge, every station is manned, no matter if it is working or not. The science station is only partly functional, but Galway does her best with what she has, and signals her readiness. Communications is under the control of Lieutenant Palmer, one of the top officers in Uhura's department, and a trusted friend. Chekov sits belted in at the helm, broadcasting nervousness and confidence in his shipmates, and at the useless tactical station at his side, Jaylah fastens her own restraints.

 

"I am ready," Jaylah announces, turning her chair to look back at Uhura. "I have been ready for many many years."

 

Chekov reaches over and grabs her hand, giving it a friendly squeeze. "Now you are vith us."

 

Palmer swivels her chair to face Uhura. "The captain's calling, lieutenant."

 

Uhura nods for her to open the channel, and looks out the viewport, not yet angled correctly to see the gathered crowd outside. "Uhura here, captain."

 

" _We're in position,_ " Kirk tells her, and though she can't see him, she can hear the smile in his voice. " _What's your status?_ "

 

"Ready for launch," she reports. And while she can't see him either, she knows that Spock must be standing at Kirk's side, and her heart breaks a little at the knowledge that she's going to be leaving him behind. _I'll come back for you._ "How's Altamyd doing?"

 

" _Grieved at your parting,_ " Spock's smooth, deep voice replies, just as she knew he would. " _But it still appears amenable to allowing your departure, given our continued presence._ "

 

It's still kind of weird to think of the planet as alive and aware, but they've seen a lot of strange life-forms over the last several years on the _Enterprise_ , including living rocks. So it's not _that_ weird, she supposes. Either way, she's just happy they've found a way to communicate with it. "Please, tell it thank you for us. We'll be back as soon as we can."

 

" _I shall do so. I wish you a safe voyage, Nyota. Rom-halan, k'diwa._ "

 

"Dungau fun-tor nash-veh, k'hat'n'dlawa," she replies in the same tongue, smiling a little, wishing that he could at least come with her. But the sooner they leave, the sooner she can return. "We're ready."

 

" _Stand by,_ " Kirk says, and his next command is muffled a bit, distant from the communicator's receiver, but she can understand it with little trouble. " _All right, let 'er rip!_ "

 

The ship shudders around them, creaking in protest at being jolted from its resting place. She can hear scraping sounds as dirt and rock slide down the hull, the _Franklin_ tilting to one side, then the other, loosening it from the planet's grip. The entire hull groans as an unseen force grips it and draws it out of the earth, and there's the familiar feeling of her stomach dropping into her boots as Hendorff and six of the _Enterprise_ 's surviving telekinetics lift the ship skyward.

 

The ship tilts forward just enough that she catches a glimpse of the gathered crew on the ridge, slowly growing smaller as the ship gains altitude, and she can just make out Spock's hand raised in the _ta'al_ , bidding them farewell.

 

But mutant powers will only boost the ship so far before it's out of range, enhanced mutations or not. Uhura leans forward slightly, and hits the comm, calling down to engineering. "Scotty, fire up the engines."

 

" _Aye, er, captain. Full impulse available in thirty seconds. Stand by._ "

 

The deckplates under her boots start to vibrate as the deep thrumming of the engines spool up, and the telekinetic grip on the ship slackens as technology takes over, and Chekov steers the _Franklin_ skyward. Blue sky gives way to vivid red and purple as the planet falls away, the majestic nebula opening up before them.

 

Jaylah gasps, and goes very still, staring out the front viewport. Manning an inoperable station or not, in this moment and every other, Uhura doesn't regret for one moment that she agreed to let this brave young woman join them, even if only to give her the gift of seeing her prison fall far below her. And as the ship leaves the planet behind, gravity loses its hold on them all, weightlessness pressing their shoulders into their seats' restraints, just like the ancient space explorers of Earth's past.

 

The ship enters a gentle turn under Chekov's skilled hands, and the vast expanse of Altamyd turns below them, a glowing jewel nestled in the depths of the nebula. Glittering specks rise from the planet's surface, the planet's biocrystal ships chasing them upward like dolphins in a sea ship's wake, a silent dance that seems like a plea to stay and a farewell, all at once.

 

Uhura closes her eyes for a moment and takes in a breath, letting it out slowly, letting her thoughts fall into order. "Chekov, lay in a course back to _Yorktown_ , best possible speed."


	49. Jailbreak

Something has changed.

 

He does not know how much time has passed, how many times the bright light in the sky has risen and fallen, only that he has slept, and eaten the dead things that have periodically appeared in the small room, still not enough to fill the pit of his belly. The tantalizing life-feel of food creatures _right there_ , on the other side of the wall, just barely out of reach.

 

He has clawed at the walls with broken fingernails, thrown everything he can pick up at the door that just needs to _open_ for him, and still he is trapped and alone, with only the roar of voices in his head for company. There are more sounds now that come to him, but they mean as little now as they did when they began. He does not know what is a Starfleet or a Franklin or a distress signal, all he knows is that there must be a way out of this cage.

 

The scent of the other predator has faded, old and stale in his nose. Maybe it has moved on to better hunting grounds, or maybe it is some kind of trick, trying to make him hunt its food so it has a reason to hunt him in return. But if it is a trick, he does not think he has a choice. He must escape, or be trapped here forever, his hunger gnawing a deep hole in his belly until it consumes him.

 

And there is so much food out there in this strangely familiar metal box.

 

The cage lurches around him, and he scrambles to the door as unseen hands pull him down and sideways, the walls groaning like prey does when he begins to feed. He claws at the unopening door until he begins to leave bloody streaks, and the smell only makes him hungrier.

 

But then the pulling stops, and he _flies_.

 

The floor no longer holds him, and there is no up or down or sideways, just floating free with the rest of the loose things in the cage. He lets out a cry of alarm, but it doesn't hurt, and it doesn't stop. The noises in his head grow louder, and his lips whisper the meaningless sounds "Zeroh gee."

 

His body remembers this, from long ago, learning how to move in this strange floating, grabbing onto the parts of the walls that don't move to pull himself along. He moves slowly, carefully, like stalking prey that does not yet know he is there, as if he can sneak up on the floating and make it part of himself.

 

He crouches on what was the metal above his head, holding onto the parts that shine down light on the cage, and the seams are wider here. He wedges claw-like fingers into the gaps and pulls, the metal shrieking under his hands as he pulls it back, revealing the guts of the ceiling to him. The dust here smells old and abandoned, but there is a scent also of fresher air, seeping through the cracks.

 

He lets go of the loose panel and it floats slowly away, spinning gently, no longer of interest.

 

He puts his head in the space, looking around. It is a tight space to fit in, but he is smaller than he once was, and he knows that he will fit, and there will be many things to hold onto and pull himself along. He slithers inside, following the air smells, and the faint scents of food creatures along with it.

 

There are noises now, coming from outside the cage, sounds of alarm as the prey who follow the other predator realize that he is not as helpless and docile as they thought. But it is too late for them to stop him. The other predator's scent is faded, and it is not here to force him to submit. None of the pathetic food creatures are a threat to him, not even with their shiny weapons that spit blue fire.

 

His body scrapes against the dust and it rises in a cloud, swirling around him as he squeezes through the tight space, and he can smell the food creatures on the other side of the metal, protected only by a thin wall with wide seams.

 

Not enough.

 

He braces his back against the metal and kicks, sending the panel flying down to strike the prey below. There is a pained cry, a shout of, "what the hell?" But it is too late.

 

He surges from the tight space, and _reaches_ for their life force. There are two of them, oh so sweet, and he wants to cry from relief as they rush into the aching black void in his belly and their voices scream in his head. Withered bodies drift away, limp and silent, and their sounds echo only in his mind. _Rayburn. Carlisle._

 

It is a light in the darkness, a fresh air after the storm, and his eyes grow wet as he _finally_ feeds for the first time in so long, filling the parts of him that simple dead flesh does not satisfy.

 

And it is still not enough.

 

But now he is on the other side of the cage, and the air brings the smell of more food, and no trace of the other predator's scent. These hunting grounds are free to claim now, and he is _starving_.

 

He lifts his head and inhales, taking the smells into himself, finding the closest source. There are many food creatures nearby, clustered together and bathed in the smell of sickness and injury. Easy targets, unable to run fast enough to escape. There is no place they can hide from him.

 

He stays close to what was once the metal above his head and pulls himself along by the lights, stalking where they will not see him, not until it is too late. And then he will feast as he never has before.

 

Maybe then, he will not be so desperately hungry.


	50. Overdue

"They should have been back by now."

 

It's been five days since the USS _Franklin_ broke free from her resting place on the surface of Altamyd and disappeared into the wide blue sky. Before it got far enough away that communications were disrupted, Uhura had reported back that the repairs had held, and the _Franklin_ was making tracks towards _Yorktown_. There was no indication that anything was wrong with the ship.

 

At the captain's request, Spock and Sulu had put their heads together and crunched some numbers. At the best possible speed available, the _Franklin_ should have arrived at _Yorktown_ no more than twenty-four hours after launch. Take another two days to rustle up the closest starship, and another day at most to navigate back to Altamyd.

 

The rescue ships should have arrived yesterday.

 

Kirk and Spock sit at the edge of McCoy's pond. Or at least, Spock is sitting, legs crossed in a meditative pose, his spine as straight as a ruler. Kirk can't quite sit still, meandering along the shore of the pond, reflexively scanning for any signs of those little salamander things that Jaylah showed him how to catch, his wings mantled behind him like he's ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

 

McCoy stays mostly submerged, eyeing the captain in unconcealed concern, which Kirk ignores. "They're only a day overdue from Spock's _best_ guess," the doctor points out, his voice gurgling a bit but still recognizable.

 

"That is correct," Spock agrees. "It is entirely possible, even likely, that the nebula's ionic interference has created enough navigational difficulties to delay our rescue."

 

Kirk scratches at his jaw, although the itchiness of stubble has eased up as his beard has started to fill out. It's more habit at this point than anything else. "Yeah, and Chekov has to navigate mostly by memory. I know. You've told me like five times."

 

"And we'll keep tellin' you until it sinks into that birdbrain of yours," McCoy shoots back at him. "Give it another three days, then we'll start worrying."

 

"The _Enterprise_ was officially overdue to return to _Yorktown_ four planetary days ago," Spock adds, raising an eyebrow calmly, and Kirk privately wonders how the hell Spock still gets to look so dignified even though he's getting as scruffy as most of the rest of the men. "As we were sent to a specific region of space on our most recent mission, it is likely that an attempt will be made to search for us, regardless of the _Franklin_ 's success or failure in reaching the starbase. While this in no way guarantees our rescue, our odds have increased by a significant factor."

 

"Not gonna calculate them exactly?" McCoy asks, raising his brow ridge sarcastically.

 

Kirk knows damn well what they're doing. Snarking at each other is a time-honored tradition at this point, providing endless hours of entertainment for themselves and, of course, to keep their captain's attention off whatever dire circumstances they find themselves facing today. And while he usually looks forward to hearing whatever nonsense argument they've chosen to fulfill that role, right now he has little patience for it. "The odds don't matter. We have to hope for the best and plan for the worst."

 

But his wings are trembling a little as the anxiety knots in his chest, the dread that they might have to endure winter, or even _years_ before anyone finds them. The horrible uncertainty of not _knowing_ what happened to the _Franklin_ , and the eighty-five crewmen who went with her. And no Jaylah here to help, no one who knows what horrible surprises Altamyd might have in store for anyone enduring an extended stay.

 

And on top of all that, the real reason behind the mood swings that he just can't seem to stop... the beast inside him, growing stronger every day. And he can't just ignore it. He needs it to survive, to keep his crew alive, and he can't deny that he's _happier_ when he lets it take control, and he doesn't have to worry about any of this.

 

He's not the only one. Not every animal-type mutant has been affected the same way, of course, and some lucky ones like McCoy have been affected only physically. But Lieutenant Barnhart's canine features have exaggerated to the point where he's actually been caught compulsively howling at the moon, and magpie-like Ensign Compton has had to be put in charge of guarding all the salvaged metal because he can't resist hoarding all the shiny things regardless, just to name a few.

 

He can tell without looking that Spock and McCoy are giving him that look again, and he wants so much to just change the subject that he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "I applied for the vice admiralship at _Yorktown_."

 

McCoy sits bolt upright so fast that he actually splashes Spock. "What the hell, Jim?"

 

Spock looks mildly perturbed, which in Vulcan terms means he's aghast. "You wish to leave the _Enterprise_?" he asks, and then seems to remember that the _Enterprise_ is little more than a slag heap now. "I did not realize you were unsatisfied with your role as captain," he corrects himself.

 

"I've been unsatisfied by a lot lately," Kirk admits, and forces himself to sit down next to Spock, uncaring that the pond water is soaking into his pants. _No more running._ "It's not that I hate being captain or anything. It's the best thing I've ever done with my life and I wouldn't trade the last few years for anything. But it all just seemed so... futile. No end goal, nothing that I could point to and say 'this is it, we've made it.'"

 

McCoy reaches out a webbed hand and puts it on Kirk's knee, the only part of him that he can reach from the water. "Why didn't you tell us?"

 

And that's the million credit question, isn't it? "I don't know." He rolls his shoulders and settles his wings against his back, resisting the urge to shroud himself with them. He doesn't need to protect himself, not from his best friends, the better halves of his soul. "I've spent so long on my own, moving from one place to the next, I just... felt like I needed to keep looking for my chance to jump ship. Like it was something I _had_ to do, sooner or later. That's what Jim Kirk does; he finds something to do with himself until the next chance to run comes along. I feel like my whole life, I've just been surviving."

 

Spock frowns minutely. "That does not appear to be a negative thing to do."

 

But McCoy gets it, and despite his drastically altered face, those expressive hazel eyes haven't changed one bit. "You've just been surviving for so long that you forgot how to _live_."

 

Kirk nods. "Yeah. And I'm tired of it."

 

Spock is doing a decent job of hiding it, but he still looks stricken by this revelation. "You believe you will find that peace of mind on _Yorktown_?"

 

The captain shakes his head immediately. "No, I don't. Not anymore. And much as I wish this all had never happened... if the _Enterprise_ hadn't been destroyed, I'm not sure I would've come to realize that soon enough to turn down the post. It's such a cliché... I never realized just how much I wanted to keep the _Enterprise_ until she was gone." But that's not quite right, and he chews on his words for a long moment, reconsidering. "I'll miss her. She's the best home I ever had, and she was special to me. But more than the ship, I'd miss you guys, and the rest of the crew."

 

Spock lifts his chin slightly, and there is both pain and pride in his eyes when he speaks. "The first time we met, Ambassador Spock told me that our friendship would one day define us all in a manner I had not yet realized. At the time, I did not truly understand the depth of that statement." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a strange rectangular case, handing it to the captain. "This was among the ambassador's personal effects."

 

Kirk understands the moment he opens the case and sees the image inside, and his jaw drops slightly as he realizes he recognizes _everyone_ in the photo. "That's us. The whole senior crew." He turns it so McCoy can see, and the doctor blinks in surprise.

 

"Well I'll be damned." McCoy holds his breath to lean in closer, getting a better look. "I'd say that's us about twenty, twenty-five years down the road."

 

"Still together," Kirk agrees. "And we look _happy_."

 

"Yes," Spock says quietly. "In the ambassador's timeline, all seven of us served together for twenty years. That does not speak to me of simple duty, but a deep friendship forged among comrades as close as kin." He looks over at Kirk. "Captain... the ambassador always made it clear to me that our destinies are our own, and that our paths have already altered from what they were in his timeline. But this is one thing that I do not wish to change. If you were to leave us, we would be indescribably less than we are now."

 

Kirk hands the image case back to him, careful not to drop it where it would get damaged by the mud or water. "I realize that now. If - _when_ \- we make it back to _Yorktown_ , I'm going to tell Commodore Paris that I'm no longer interested in the position. And hopefully Starfleet will get us another ship." His heart still aches for his beloved _Enterprise_ , and he knows that any other ship will never fill that same hole in his chest where his silver lady belongs. But in the end, it's not the ship itself that makes a home, is it?

 

He can only hope they'll get the chance to learn that lesson all over again. All they can do is wait and see.


	51. Delay

And so they wait.

 

There's little else they can do, after all. With the _Franklin_ gone, and the _Enterprise_ fatally crippled, there is no other way to escape the planet. All they can do is keep surviving, one day at a time, establishing a routine to give them something to do with themselves.

 

Spock never joins the hunting parties that leave the main camp daily around midmorning. He understands his human crewmates' ability to consume animal flesh and appreciates the logic of using the most plentiful source of nourishment to sustain themselves, but he does not share that need, not yet anyway. There is still enough plant life to sustain him adequately, supplemented by their salvaged shipboard stores, if necessary. But he too has become reluctant to delve into their nonperishable food supply, as a rapid rescue becomes more and more unlikely by the day.

 

It has now been twelve days since the USS _Franklin_ departed Altamyd. And as the captain gives himself over to his more animalistic side more and more to cope with the stress, Spock finds himself agreeing that something must have gone terribly wrong.

 

There is no logical reason why Starfleet would not send a rescue party once it became known that the survivors of the _Enterprise_ remain stranded, and even despite the navigational difficulties presented by the nebula, it seems improbable that an accomplished and intelligent navigator such as Pavel Chekov would not be able to overcome such difficulties by now.

 

"Well no _shit_ , something went wrong," is McCoy's response, when Spock brings it up. The doctor's mutation appears to be stable at last, but he is still unable to breathe atmosphere, and thus remains confined to the pond. A Vulcan would find the confinement tolerable, even conducive to meditation, but McCoy is no Vulcan, and while the phrase 'going stir-crazy' is a painfully human one, it is apt.

 

So while the captain indulges his predatory instincts with the other crewmen assigned to food-gathering, Spock spends the same timeframe ensuring the doctor's mental well-being, within his capability of course.

 

"What do you think happened?" McCoy asks, nervously scratching at his chest scales.

 

Spock tilts his head slightly. "Unknown. It is possible that repairs were not adequate to sustain life aboard the _Franklin_ , but that is unlikely, considering Mister Scott's bond with the ship. It is certainly possible that some unknown navigational hazard caused further damage. Our survey of the nebula's layout was quite incomplete."

 

McCoy grimaces. "Anything that might not mean everyone's dead?"

 

"Damage does not necessarily preclude survival," Spock points out. "If, for example, the ship's engines were damaged, travel time to _Yorktown_ would significantly increase."

 

The doctor raises a scaled eye ridge. "How significantly?"

 

"That would depend on the extent of the damage. Total loss of both warp and impulse engines would result in a transit time of years, but this is unlikely. Total destruction of the _Franklin_ is far more probable, and that is also unlikely."

 

McCoy grumbles, failing to hide his worry. "Maybe it's personnel. There are quite a few mutants with runaway powers on board. Now there's a reason why crewmen with damaging powers like Barrows' weren't allowed to go, but there's always the chance we missed one."

 

"It is possible," Spock agrees. "However, this speculation is unfortunately academic. The fact remains that for whatever reason, either the _Franklin_ has not made contact with _Yorktown_ , or Starfleet has not yet managed to send a rescue ship to aid us. In any case, the captain's fear that we may have to wait for some time before we are retrieved appears to be coming true."

 

"Yeah... I really wish he'd been wrong about that." McCoy sighs and rubs a webbed hand over his face.

 

"As do I, doctor." But there is little reason to lament the facts, of course. Imagining otherwise accomplishes nothing, and wastes time which could be used more productively. "I have been contemplating a possible solution for your safety, if we must endure planetary winter. It is theoretically possible for me to assist you in attaining the same type of healing trance that healed my injury when we arrived. It would be similar to hibernation. However, I have never before induced such a state in a non-Vulcan."

 

Human faces are so expressive, and McCoy has never been an exception. His unease is plain to see, as is his fear. But despite these feelings, he does not dismiss Spock's offer immediately. "I'm not gonna lie, that sounds risky."

 

"It is," Spock answers. "Even for Vulcans, the _tow-kath_ carries inherent dangers. Timing is critical, even when there is a specific injury to heal, which this would not. You would be aware of your surroundings, which I understand is a state which could be mentally taxing for you. It is not an ideal solution, but our options are limited."  Spock is not prone to sentimentality, nor any other kind of emotional display, but in this case he makes an exception. For the doctor's sake, of course. "I do not want to see you endure this, doctor. It is my... hope... that it will not come to that."

 

McCoy looks surprised, perhaps at his blatant honesty, or the emotions behind them. "Guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, then. Keep thinking, Spock. But I appreciate the offer, and I hope to God I don't have to take you up on it."

 

Spock's acute Vulcan ears pick up the sounds of the hunting party returning, and he turns to see whether their efforts have been successful today. Three crewmen carry dispatched animals of varying types, and a large bag stuffed full of vegetation. The captain shepherds them from above, gliding on the winds of Altamyd, and even from this distance Spock can tell that he is not fully himself, his body language becoming more birdlike every time he returns from a successful hunt.

 

They are running out of time. For McCoy, to avoid the coming winter. For Kirk, to preserve his humanity. And for the crew, to allow their very survival.

 

And at this moment, there is nothing that can be done to prevent any of this.


	52. Abandoned

_Was it all a lie?_

 

The one called Altamyd slowly spins amongst the red and purple clouds, and it reaches out to touch the little pinpoints of life on its skin, now concentrated in four clusters. There are fewer now than there were, some of them flown away in a tiny metal seed that disappeared into the clouds.

 

The one called Spock had promised that they would return. That if some were allowed to go, they would come back with more, with little lives that would be willing to stay and befriend the lonely planet. But the one called Altamyd has turned around many times, many many times, and still no clusters of life approach from beyond the clouds.

 

Its thoughts concentrate on the small roots of the one called Sulu, coiling into its mind and listening to its sadness. It thinks often of its mate and offspring, filling its heart with familiar longing for family, for ones held dear to it, wishing to be with them. The one called Altamyd hums in sympathy, in shared pain, and the one called Sulu startles at its touch.

 

But soon, the little life is joined by the one called Spock, reaching out together to the one called Altamyd. _You are troubled._

 

The one called Altamyd has spent a lifetime learning patience, waiting for clusters of life to come close enough to capture to itself, sometimes spending painfully long eras with no new contact. But now it is learning to be impatient, eagerly anticipating a promised coming, only to be met with nothing.

 

_Where?_ it demands anxiously.

 

The one called Spock hesitates. _We do not know. We too are concerned for our shipmates._

 

Not sufficient! It has waited, and the others have not come. It must know the reason, and it presses deeper into the one called Spock, searching for the answer. The tiny life cries out as the weight of the planet's consciousness crushes against it, smothering it beneath the unstoppable _need_ , and the one called Altamyd does not understand.

 

There is no answer. The one called Spock truly does not know.

 

Why?

 

The small pinpoints of life are in pain, crying out as the one called Altamyd tears down to their cores in search for an answer that does not exist, and the planet lets go in horror at itself. It does not understand why they hurt, but somehow, it is at fault. Why?

 

_Why?_

 

The one called Spock does not answer right away, and the voice of the one called Sulu filters along the other life's consciousness, reaching out to the one called Altamyd. _We want them back just as much as you do. We really don't know why they haven't come back yet. But they will. We have to have faith._

 

Faith. An alien concept, and it brushes against the tiny lives' thoughts again, much more careful this time, trying to understand. Believing in something that cannot be experienced, trusting that an unknowable, unpredictable event will occur. It is unfathomable. A thing either is or it is not. The cluster of lives in the metal seed have not returned, and more time has passed than would be explainable. Therefore they will not return, surely?

 

_Alone,_ it laments, and fears the inevitable slow fading of its newest collection of life forces. Already they are fewer than they were, in such a short amount of time. And now, the one called Altamyd knows that it can harm the small lives that tread on its skin, not intending this but doing so regardless, and it wonders if it has done so in the past without knowing. How many of those small lives were snuffed out under the lonely, desperate reaching of the abandoned planet?

 

Perhaps they knew. Perhaps that is why the cluster of lives in the metal seed have not come back, fleeing the danger that did not know it was dangerous. And perhaps those that still live on its skin know this, too, and fear the planet's wrath.

 

They need not fear.

 

The one called Altamyd withdraws from their touch, confused and ashamed, unknowing if it should continue. The ones called Spock and Sulu call after it, but this time, it does not answer, fearing their touch for the first time in its memory. Desperately lonely, yet dreading contact, fearful that it may once again unintentionally harm those it wishes to protect.

 

It slowly spins, its consciousness huddled at its core, far away from the touches of life on its skin, the way the new lives hunt the smaller, lesser lives and snuff them out, so it does not need to remember the times where it may have done the same. And yet it does not know what else to do.

 

It does not notice the universe outside itself for some time, until it becomes aware that something is spinning with it, a small cluster of life in a metal seed, not touching its skin but flying just outside its atmosphere, holding position above the clusters of life on its surface.

 

Shocked, it acts on age-old habit, sending its tendrils skyward to investigate. It is not the same seed that sprouted from its skin so many turns ago. It is different. Unknown.

 

But this time, it stays its hand, watching the seed through its tendrils. Always before, when it has captured a cluster and brought it to its skin, some lives have faded into nothing. And only now does the one called Altamyd realize that it, and it alone, was responsible for that fading. It is not something that lives simply do on their own. There is a reason. And now it knows that it can cause harm.

 

Its tendrils swarm around the metal seed, not touching, only watching. _Why are you here?_

 

Is it possible that these are the others? The ones who were promised to come, and stay? But is it not the same seed. Perhaps it is here to hunt those that the one called Altamyd has already captured, like they hunt the lesser lives.

 

It does not know, and it does not know what to do. Whether to rejoice at new life... or fear for the fading of those that it already treasures.


	53. Capture

It's always a good feeling to return from a successful hunt, especially when he is not the only one. The other designated hunters at each nest are getting better at tracking and taking down prey to bring back to the rest of the flock, and even the growing chill in the air can't dampen that very primal satisfaction.

 

He drops off his kill at camp, and takes to the sky, letting the breeze push up on his wings and take him skyward. Despite the savagery of needing to kill to eat, despite the absence of many modern comforts he's come to take for granted, despite the horrible memories of Tarsus IV always lurking at the back of his mind... it's actually rather peaceful at times, all things considered.

 

There's a gap in the wispy clouds ahead, and he banks, turning himself nearly sideways to pass through, just because he can. The reddish orange light of Altamyd's star warms the backs of his wings as he climbs higher, the sounds of the forest and the river dropping far away below him into the barest whispers of noise. Up here, he doesn't need to be captain, or anything other than what he is in this moment.

 

The world unfolds below him, stretching out into vast distances. He can see the glint of sunlight reflecting on water, following the course of the long river as it winds through the landscape, cutting canyons through the rocky terrain to the south, where mountains eventually rise skyward. He can see endless waves of green forest, a great black scar cutting a straight path through the trees, ending in the broken wreck of his former home, the fires still smoldering after twenty-five planetary days, if only barely.

 

The part of him that's still the captain aches at the sight of the _Enterprise_ , the pain of her loss still raw. But there is part of him that isn't distracted by such things, and as he retreats into his thoughts, that part of him slides into the driver's seat, as easy as breathing. The predator is not sentimental, and doesn't care about the destruction of a mere object. He cares only about survival, and caring for those he protects.

 

He tucks in his wings and spills air from beneath them, dropping in altitude until the clouds fall away and he levels out above the land, sharp vision idly surveying for signs of food and water, taking note of their locations so he can return later, when needed. This is a good land, though something tugs oddly in his chest, a strange urge to explore further north, past the equator of the planet. An instinct that gets stronger as the air grows colder, following the path of smaller flying creatures that swarm past him every few days, or herds of land creatures making their way in that direction also.

 

But something else catches his eye, and he whips his head around, wings banking sharply to investigate. There are too many bodies at the main nest. Too much color.

 

There are intruders in his territory. Strangers, not of his flock, invading his nests. Too many to fight at once.

 

He passes over the nest, high above it, beyond weapons range and spies down on them with eyes that see far more than they used to. Some of them look up, showing little interest, no doubt dismissing him as a harmless animal. But he is the top predator here, and the less attention they pay him, the better.

 

He grits his teeth and sets his jaw, growling in his chest as he sees the strangers rounding up his crew, gathering them into groups that shimmer and vanish in a familiar way, taking them away to places unknown. Stealing them away from him.

 

He will not allow it.

 

_He_ is the one who has kept them alive! Hunted and killed for them, built them shelter, brought medicine back to the nest for those that needed it. And now, he will defend them from those that wish to take them and use them for their own purposes.

 

When he sees the strangers moving towards the pond, his anger boils over, a surge of protectiveness consuming him. He plummets from the sky, wind screaming past his ears, an answering scream tearing its way from his throat. The intruders look up, startled, stopping their forward advance. Giving him just enough time to swoop down and land on the shore, between them and one of his flock that he treasures most, and he throws his wings wide and flares his crest, feathers standing on end from his head to halfway down his back.

 

The strangers collectively take a step back, rightfully intimidated away from their target. Behind him, he can hear the sounds of water splashing and someone saying something, but he shrugs off the noise as unimportant. There is danger to his people, his _flock_ , and nothing is more important than ensuring their safety. It's his duty.

 

He snarls again, drawing himself up to his full height, yellow eyes locked on the intruder who seems most leader-like, swathed in black and gold. Vaguely, he knows he should say something, but he can't find the words and his message is perfectly clear. _Stay away from my people, or else._

 

The strangers look uncertain, but they aren't showing any signs of submission or leaving, so he takes a step forward, wings bristling as he stares them down, unblinking. The voice behind him repeats the same sounds, more urgent, trying to get his attention, but he cannot spare it. Not until the danger is gone.

 

The leader-intruder lifts a box to its mouth and speaks, but nothing seems to happen, until there's a strangely familiar pressure in his head, something he hasn't felt since... so long ago, he cannot recall when, exactly. He pushes against it, but the pressure gets stronger, and the world begins to waver and turn black around the edges. He stumbles, shaking his head, and a blurry intruder approaches, clad in blue, hands held out in a plea for calm, speaking noises at him that muffle into nonsense.

 

He blinks sluggishly and finds himself face-down in the dirt, and he thrashes weakly as the pressure subdues him further, dragging him down into unconsciousness. The intruder leans over him, and he can just barely make out green eyes in a soft face, looking down at him in strange compassion.

 

"Oh Jim..."

 

It's the last thing he hears before blackness consumes him.


	54. Change

He drifts in darkness, trapped beneath the cold waves of unconsciousness. Occasionally sounds filter through the heaviness that weighs him down - voices, rhythmic beeping, a low rumbling that resonates in his bones - but then there's a hiss and he sinks back into the dark silence.

 

And yet, he doesn't feel any kind of panic. Sometimes he feels that strange pressure in his head, gentler now, like a caring hand carding through his hair when he was a little boy, falling asleep on his mother's lap after a long day. Other times, it's physical pressure, encircling his wrists and ankles, or in a wide band across his back. And yet there's no sense of danger, not even when he surfaces enough to feel a sharp pain at the crook of his elbow or the unwelcome sting in his eyes as a flash of light penetrates the darkness before leaving him alone again.

 

It could be hours or days later that he finally, slowly swims his way back to consciousness, head stuffed full of cotton, thoughts sluggish and half-formed as he listens to the muffled sounds, slowly clarifying into familiar and unfamiliar voices.

 

"...looking better... stable..."

 

"...him awake?"

 

"...soon... let it wear off... under a while..."

 

"...hope he's more... I can sense it..."

 

He frowns a little, trying to place the voice. He's heard it before... but where? He shifts, or tries to, coming up short as something grabs at him, holding him in place, and he slowly realizes that half of his face is pressed against something soft. Muzzily, he blinks his eyes open, squinting at the blinding whiteness around him.

 

"Lights to seventy percent," says someone he doesn't recognize, and the whiteness becomes more bearable to look at. "Captain Tsel-Kirk, are you with us?"

 

A blurry figure leans into his field of view, and reaches out to touch him, soft fingers grasping his hand. "Jim," the familiar voice says, and green eyes come into focus, a face wreathed in blonde hair.

 

He has to still be dreaming, because this makes no sense to him, struggling against the lingering sluggishness of the drugs they must've been dosing him with. But the gentle squeeze of his hand is accompanied by the feather-light touch against his mind, and there's no faking that kind of telepathic contact, resonating through a familial bond he hasn't felt or even thought about in years.

 

"Mom?" he mumbles in disbelief.

 

She smiles at him, and it's at once a familiar sight and yet completely alien, mostly absent of that pain she gets when she looks at him and sees the ghost of George Kirk in him. "Yes, it's me. How're you feeling?" she asks.

 

It strikes him as unexpectedly funny. She's always known how he's feeling, without him needing to say a single word, because she's a _telepath_. Without meaning to, he summons up a lopsided grin, which then wavers as the actual question finally registers. "Confused," he says at last.

 

"I bet," his mother agrees. She looks over him at someone else, and he abruptly recognizes that everything's at a weird angle because he's face-down, his head turned to one side so he doesn't suffocate in a pillow that smells only of clean laundry. "Untie him. He's not gonna fight us this time."

 

There are hands on him, unfastening straps from his arms and legs, and the larger one pinning his wings against his back. Winona and the stranger - a doctor, as it turns out, in shipboard medical blues - help him turn over on his side, his coordination still off as the sedatives still linger in his system. "Take it easy," the doctor says to him. "You've been through quite an ordeal. Do you know where you are?"

 

Kirk looks around, and he's unprepared for the spike of grief of recognizing Sickbay and knowing in his heart that it isn't _his_. The biobeds are all full, every one holding someone that he recognizes as a member of his own crew, a few restrained and sedated like he was, others resting quietly. There's a pale blue glow from the far end of Medical, and he squints at it with eyes that seem weaker than they used to be. It's an upright water tank, and he can just make out the familiar shape of McCoy floating inside, his shiny gray scales interrupted by patches of pink.

 

He doesn't remember coming here, doesn't really remember anything past rushing to the defense of his crew, then being smothered in a peaceful darkness, like putting a hood on a falcon to calm it. But his mother's here, so he can take a guess. " _Columbia_?" he asks, looking back up at the doctor.

 

The doctor smiles down at him kindly. "That's right. I'm Doctor Vel-M'Benga. I'd say welcome to my Sickbay, but you've been here for three days already."

 

_Three days?_ The shock of it is like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head, and he tries to sit up, managing only to clumsily whack his wings against the biobed as he tries to unfold them before his mother puts her hand on his arm, holding him down as easily as she did when he was little. "Stay down, Jim. You're not quite back to your old self yet."

 

"Yet?" he repeats, puzzled.

 

M'Benga hands him a mirror, and he can't help but think of that moment four years ago, waking in Starfleet Medical to see his wings restored after fourteen years of phantom weight on his shoulders. This time, as he looks into the mirror, it's no less of a shock. His eyes have returned to their natural blue, but there's a lingering ring of gold around the irises. His crest is molting, blond hair peeking out through uneven gaps where he's already lost feathers, slowly growing back. But the biggest surprise is, oddly, the beard, making him look more mature than the cocky, fresh-faced Jim Kirk who took command of the _Enterprise_ straight out of the Academy. He has never looked less like his father than he does right now. A different man altogether.

 

Kirk's gaze snaps up to meet his mother's, suddenly understanding, and she gives him a sad smile, nodding.

 

_Well then._ He hands the mirror back and clears his throat, trying to wrestle his thoughts back into order. "My crew?" he asks.

 

"We rescued two hundred sixty-four from the planet's surface, including you," Winona tells him, and he frowns. He's still not firing on all thrusters, but that number seems too high. "We found six survivors that hadn't made it to your camps," she explains, sensing his confusion. "Great job with those, by the way. They were very well organized."

 

It adds up, and he looks at her hopefully. "You got Sulu out?"

 

It's M'Benga who answers, however. "Eventually, yes. We had to anesthetize him and amputate most of his roots to get him onboard. With luck, he should recover as his body reverts to its natural state, but he will likely be facing a long recovery regardless. Time will tell if there are any permanent effects, most likely nerve damage, if anything."

 

"Once you're up and around, you can see him," his mother promises.

 

But there's something else, something she's not telling him. He's no telepath, but he can feel the indecision in that gentle touch against his mind. And he realizes she hasn't said a word about the _Franklin_ and those he sent for help. "And the rest?" he asks, pushing down the dread gnawing at his gut.

 

She hesitates, and he pushes against her now, dragging himself upright to sit on the biobed, fear and adrenaline purging the last of the cobwebs from his head. "Mom. What happened to the _Franklin_?" he demands, pulling on the mantle of the captain as easily as breathing. It's what he _is_.

 

Winona bows her head slightly. "I told you he'd ask," she says to M'Benga, and raises her eyes to meet her son's. "Jim... there was an incident."


	55. Casualties

_Many days before..._

 

Jaylah's heart is full of light as she watches the planet fall far below, her house finally freed of its ancient prison, and her along with it. She is finally _free_ , and she can hardly believe the truth of it.

 

Her body feels odd, a strange feeling in the pit of her belly like she is falling, but she floats upward instead, stopped only by the metal straps on her shoulders and waist, keeping her in the seat. She does not remember this from her scattered memories of traveling with her parents, before she was trapped on Altamyd, perhaps forever. But Montgomery Scotty had said something about "artificial gravity" being broken, so she does not fear.

 

They have told her that it may be an entire day before they arrive at this place called _Yorktown_ where their people will send help for the others left behind. It seems so long, and yet... she has waited for many years. One more day is nothing.

 

She watches in fascination as her house cuts through the enormous red and purple clouds she has seen at night for most of her life, the distance they are traveling almost unfathomable to her, knowing that they are moving far faster than she could ever hope to move on her own. She feels as though she could watch the clouds pass by forever.

 

But then a scream erupts from her house, something like her music and yet _not_ , a shrieking wail that comes with all the lights turning deep red.

 

Nyoota Hura is alert at once, reacting with a warrior's speed. "Report!" she commands.

 

Lizbet Palmer answers her from the communications station. "Red Alert triggered from Medical! The prisoner has escaped."

 

Horror grips Jaylah, and she lets out a brief scream. _I warned them this would happen!_ Long white fingers press the release for her restraints and she pushes out of her seat, flying effortlessly to the ceiling. It is nothing at all like swimming, or like James Tee's freedom of movement through the sky on his beautiful wings. Instead she pushes and flies until she stops, unable to turn or slow down, and she grips the lights on the ceiling to stop herself from bouncing back down.

 

"Jaylah, what are you doing?" Nyoota Hura demands of her.

 

"What you would not," she snaps, and eyes the angles between herself and the open doorway to the bridge. "Krall kills _all_ of us if I do not." She pushes off, precisely on target, and she must grab onto things on the walls to stay on target. It is a strange way of getting around, but she has always learned quickly when her life depends on the learning.

 

And she knows her house better than anyone.

 

She first goes to the place where she keeps her staff, but she does not feel safer with its weight in her hands. Nor does she rejoice that she is finally going to kill her family's killer, the one who has eaten so many people, though she has looked forward to nothing else for years.

 

No. She had not realized how much she wanted Krall to suffer until now, when that choice is now gone from her hands like flowing water through fingers. She does not want to kill him anymore. Not for revenge. What reason is there to kill as punishment? The dead do not care that they are dead. And while her heart still cries for her mother and father, she knows now that Krall will never understand what he did to her, no matter if she kills him or not. He is an animal in all meanings. Animals do not kill for hate. They kill to survive.

 

As she has done.

 

If Krall lives, then maybe one day he would be more than just an animal again, and he would understand. But that can no longer happen.

 

She knows this truly when she sees the floating bodies.

 

Two Starfleets drift through the halls of her house, withered and dead, all their meat gone from under their skin to feed the relentless hunger of Krall. Jaylah shudders and touches her forehead in respect for their deaths, then pushes herself past them. The place called Sickbay is nearby, and she can hear the screams of the Starfleets within, and her nose smells the bitter stink of Krall.

 

She slows, stalking the predator that has stalked her most of her life, and she passes more bodies, tracking the movement of her hated enemy by the trail he has left behind. She does not know all of their names, and does not have time to stop and see if she recognizes any of them. Not while Krall is still a danger.

 

She peers through the doorway of the Sickbay, and here the bodies are strapped down to keep the injured ones from floating, only to leave them helpless against Krall. There is a small room inside the Sickbay, something the Starfleets call the See-Em-Oh's Office, and the door is closed. Krall floats outside it, hungrily snarling at whoever is on the other side.

 

He does not notice her. She will get no better chance.

 

Jaylah pushes off hard, holding her staff in front of her, and activates its special modifications. The ends sizzle with energy, and she lets out a battle cry as she strikes Krall in the back, zapping him. He cries out and his body shakes, but he turns on her, eyes wild and mad. She has never seen him this close, and she strikes at him again, before he can turn his horrible power on her and eat her too.

 

The force of her strike sends her back, and she flails, not close enough to anything to push off. She's helpless, floating just out of reach of her hated enemy, who now turns his hungry gaze on her. A force grips her bones, and her breath leaves as terrible pain consumes her.

 

_So this is what it felt like._

 

This is not the way she wanted to die.

 

But the door behind Krall slides open, and one of the Starfleets looks out, her face hard with determination. Jaylah summons the strength to throw her staff, sending it spinning past Krall's head and into Christeen Chap-pel's hand, even as Krall's power drains her. "Kill him!" she tries to shout, her voice coming out only as a whisper.

 

Christeen Chap-pel looks saddened by having to do this thing, but it does not stop her, either. She does not hesitate, jabbing the crackling end of Jaylah's staff into the back of Krall's neck and _holds it there_ , pushing him against the ceiling while she braces herself against the floor, so neither of them can float away.

 

Krall screams, writhing in the same kind of pain he gives to those he eats, and even through the agony of being half-eaten, Jaylah can breathe out her fear as he goes limp, dead eyes staring at nothing.

 

Christeen Chap-pel holds the staff against him longer, just in case, until she is sure that he will move no more. But there is no happiness in either of them at this defeat, not as they both float in a room full of many corpses, and Jaylah's pain begins to fade as darkness crawls into her eyes.

 

"Hold on, Jaylah," she can hear Christeen Chap-pel say, her voice coming from very far away. Then there is nothing.


	56. Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day, for the second day in a row! Why the heck not? I have unexpectedly been having a blast writing Winona.

" _Science Officer's personal log, stardate 2263.17. My worst nightmare may be coming true. Today we received word that the_ Enterprise _has officially been declared missing in the nebula just off_ Yorktown _. It's not unusual for ships to go out of contact, out here in deep space, but my Jim... Captain Kirk... his ship has never been one of them."_

_"I missed his birthday call again this year while I was down on Sigma Draconis Two with the geology team. Now I can only hope that it wasn't my last chance to speak with him."_

_"I haven't been the best mother to him, and I know that. My poor boy... he nearly died in defense of Earth, four years ago, and I was halfway across the galaxy. I thought then that it was the worst thing I could endure, waiting to hear if he'd pulled through, with no way to go to him. This is somehow worse. At least then, I knew where he was, that he was being cared for. Now I have only my imagination to suggest any number of horrible fates for him. He could be dead already, for all I..."_

_"...I've been so unfair to him. Not taking his calls is an excuse not to have to look at my son and see his father in him. It's not his fault he takes after George. And now that I might never see him again, I regret all the times I turned away from him to spare myself the pain. I've wasted so much time ignoring him, when he's all I have left. If he's found alive... maybe this time I won't throw away the chance to do what I should've been doing all along."_

_"We'll be at_ Yorktown _ourselves in ten hours._ Columbia _is the closest ship capable of carrying out the search, and Captain Tsel-Alvarado has volunteered to put our survey mission on hold to do so. He already had my loyalty, and now he has my gratitude. I just hope we aren't too late."_

 

Winona Kirk has long since lost track of the amount of times she's watched the USS _Columbia_ come into dock from her post on the bridge, but this time she can hardly concentrate on the necessary procedures, her gaze fixed on the red and purple nebula that marks the last known position of the USS _Enterprise_ , thirteen days ago. The last time anyone saw her son alive.

 

She always tries not to pry into the private thoughts of those around her, but it's difficult today, hearing her name whispered in the minds of every crewman who sees her. There isn't a person aboard who doesn't know that the _Enterprise_ 's captain is her son, his own accomplishments making him a legend in his own right, beyond his childhood fame.

 

As third in command, after Helmsman Vel-Ahmadi, most of the crew feels too intimidated by rank to offer their sympathies in person. But there's no mistaking those echoes that follow her path across the ship, until at last the captain turns towards her on the bridge of the _Columbia_. _Lieutenant Commander, if you need to sit this mission out, I'll understand,_ he thinks clearly in her direction.

 

She shakes her head, and though she's not close enough to Alvarado to reply directly, he seems to understand regardless. The captain smiles faintly at her and nods, before turning back towards the viewscreen. _Yorktown_ looms ahead, nearly close enough to begin the docking procedures that will allow her to resupply and receive their briefing from Commodore Paris, before setting sail to search for the missing ship.

 

At the communications console, Lieutenant Tsel-Dhaliwal suddenly frowns and lifts a hand to her earpiece, steadying it with a look of intense concentration on her face. "Sir, I'm picking up a distress beacon," she says, sounding confused.

 

There's a ripple of excitement across the bridge. "Is it the _Enterprise_?" Alvarado asks.

 

"No, sir." But Dhaliwal seems no less interested, not to mention puzzled. "It's an older style of beacon. No one's used this kind of call for decades. There's no identification code, just a directional beacon."

 

The captain turns to order Winona to scan for the originating ship, but she's already peering into her station's scanner, triangulating the source. "It's a Starfleet vessel," she reports in surprise. "Very small... possibly _Dorado_ -class. No shields, just armor plating. She looks like she's taken quite the beating."

 

It seems very odd, to come looking for one missing ship and find another. It can't be coincidence. Alvarado clearly agrees, because he immediately orders the ship to come about and close the distance until the ancient little ship responds to their hails.

 

The signal is weak, but the voice of the person on the other end is clear and controlled. " _This is acting captain Vel-Nyota Uhura, in command of the USS_ Franklin _, requesting immediate assistance. We have crew in need of medical attention._ "

 

Uhura? Winona recalls an officer by that name serving on the senior crew of the _Enterprise_ , and her heart leaps into her throat with worry. If this woman is acting captain, then Jim...

 

Alvarado maintains his composure with ease as he responds. "This is Captain Tsel-Alvarado of the USS _Columbia_. We stand ready to assist you. Prepare your wounded for transport. Do you require a tow to _Yorktown_?"

 

" _That'd be appreciated, captain. But I'm afraid we're not the only ones in need of rescue. It's sort of a long story, one that I'll be happy to tell once my crew is out of danger._ "

 

Not the only ones? There's still hope, then, if a slim one. Or perhaps Jim is one of those in need of medical attention. Whatever the case, Winona can only wait and see, anxiety twisting in her gut like a snake.

 

But Captain Kirk is not among those beamed over from the _Franklin_ , and it is a full hour before the tiny ship is under tow, and the acting captain is able to beam over herself. She's so _young_ , and she's wearing a modern survival uniform without rank insignia, which tells Winona two things. First, that the _Franklin_ is not her ship of origin, and second... her original ship had to be evacuated.

 

It is no coincidence.

 

Uhura takes a seat in the _Columbia_ 's briefing room, and though she greets Captain Alvarado first, her gaze stops on Winona, her eyes widening slightly.

 

"You're from the _Enterprise_ ," Winona says. It isn't a question, but Uhura nods as if it were, anyway. "Is my son...?"

 

"Captain Kirk is alive," Uhura says at once, and Winona can feel the truth of it in her mind. The relief is so strong it almost hurts. Yet there's something else too, some complication that the acting captain has not mentioned yet. "But the rescue mission is going to be... atypical."

 

Alvarado leans forward in his seat and rests his elbows on the briefing room table. "We're listening."


	57. Family

"I'm sorry we weren't able to come sooner, Jim. Finding enough volunteers to stay took time, and Starfleet was concerned the x-gene enhancements might be contagious, so the _Franklin_ 's crew was quarantined for six additional days before it became undeniable that the effect was reversing itself, not continuing."

 

Kirk listens, but it's like hearing something from a great distance, a single number repeating in his head over and over. Fifty-three.

 

Fifty-three dead in Krall's final rampage.

 

It's a good thing he's already sitting down, because it's a heavy blow. He's already lost so many of his crew, and the loss of even one more would have hit him hard. But over half the team he sent to _Yorktown_ never made it there.

 

_I thought I was sending them to safety._

 

The biobed sags slightly as his mother takes a seat next to him, and he can't help but remember that the last time she was ever this concerned about him was just after Tarsus IV. She didn't even come to visit him in Starfleet Medical when he was in a coma. But given the circumstances... he can't resent her for that. Especially not now.

 

"Jim, it isn't your fault," she says, reaching for his hand. M'Benga's disappeared somewhere when he wasn't looking, giving them some privacy.

 

He thinks about pulling away, but... fuck it. Even starship captains need their mothers sometimes. And even if this is the first time in years that she's been there for him, she's here _now_. "If I'm not to blame, who is? I'm the captain. My crewmen's lives are my responsibility."

 

Winona squeezes his hand. "You're not a clairvoyant. There's no way you could've known any of this would happen. So don't you _dare_ blame yourself for this. You lost a lot of people but the rest still need you to be their captain."

 

Part of him almost regrets that the x-gene enhancements are reverting. The guilt and grief were certainly easier to bear as his more animalistic side grew stronger, but knowing that so intimately... it's easy to see how Edison ended up the way that he did. There was no other way to cope with the loss of so many people under his command.

 

Kirk never wants to be like that. So he nods, hoping that one day, maybe he'll be able to accept it. For now... he has no other choice but to soldier on, as he always has. "How are they? The survivors." Only thirty-two of his people, thirty-three counting Jaylah. At least... he hopes it includes her.

 

"Recovering," Winona tells him, and the knot in his chest loosens slightly to hear it. "That young lady you rescued is the worst off, but the doctors say she should make a full recovery, with lots of time and physical therapy. We'll dock at _Yorktown_ tomorrow and you can see them for yourself."

 

He lifts his head then, frowning as something nags at him, something not making sense. "Why aren't we there already? Did Altamyd..."

 

"No," she says gently, reading his mind before he can voice the thought. "We brought a scientific research team willing to stay and study the planet, including a handful of Vulcans. Your first officer helped with the transition. You really did discover something unique and wonderful, Jim." She smiles, but there's sadness behind it. "Captain Alvarado ordered that we stay in orbit until the last of your crew were recovered."

 

For a moment, he wants to ask what she's talking about. Why it would take three days of waiting to transport everyone from the camps aboard, when they were gathered so close together. But that isn't what she means, and he doesn't realize he's begun crying until she touches his cheeks to wipe away the tears. "All of them?" he asks, once he finds his voice.

 

"We couldn't leave your people behind." She doesn't tell him where the bodies were recovered, and he doesn't ask. What matters is that the crewmen who gave their lives in the line of duty will be able to come home to their families, and receive all the honors they are due. It isn't what he wanted for any of them. But it's the most that _can_ be done, now.

 

He'll have to thank the _Columbia_ 's captain, once he's not such a mess.

 

He leans his shoulder against his mother's and closes his eyes, still reeling from the shock of learning how much he's lost. And how much has been saved. Winona doesn't need mindreading powers to know that what he needs most right now is just someone to sit with him quietly, letting him work through it on his own, finally given the chance to process what has happened to them all.

 

It's strange, to have her here. The last time he saw his mother face to face was before he joined Starfleet, back when he was still wingless and freshly haunted by the famine that he barely survived, and a part of him still wonders if his memories of what he was forced to do are what drove her away, making her flee to escape his demons. They've spoken via subspace transmission since, of course, but never in person until today.

 

But he can't sense any revulsion from her, not even the familiar grief that haunted every interaction he ever had with her as a child, the ghost of his father like a millstone around his neck. All he can feel from her part of the bond is relief that he is safe and relatively healthy, and the love of a mother toward her son.

 

Maybe he's not the only one who has had to come to terms with old demons lately.

 

He opens his eyes and looks over at her, opening one wing just enough to envelop her in the closest thing to a hug he can manage at the moment. "I'm glad you're here, Mom."

 

Winona smiles back at him fondly. "Me too. It's good to see you." And where she once would have said 'You look so much like him,' today what she says is, "You look magnificent, Jim. My little boy, all grown up. The beard suits you."

 

Kirk self-consciously reaches up to touch his chin. "Really?"

 

"Well," she says reasonably, "you might want to trim it a bit, unless you want to break _more_ regulations than you already do on a daily basis."

 

He rolls his eyes, but more out of habit than any actual resentment. "Thanks, Mom."


	58. Regeneration

It figures. It's been weeks since he's been stuck in that tiny-ass pond in the middle of nowhere, and now that they're finally rescued, McCoy has _still_ had to spend the past three days in an even smaller water tank in the _Columbia_ 's Sickbay. It's some kind of cruel joke, having to just... float here and watch another doctor taking care of _his_ patients.

 

At least the scales are finally falling off. It's an incredibly itchy process, almost as much as it was when they started growing in the first place, but this time he has the benefit of better antihistamines, so it's a lot more bearable. He still gives in to the urge to scratch, though, and while it's disconcerting to feel the damn things loosening and pulling free of his skin, it's also weirdly satisfying, like peeling a sunburn.

 

McCoy holds a hand up in front of his face to study it, pleased to see that the webbing is nearly gone too, absorbing back into the flesh of his fingers. At this rate, he'll be completely back to what passes for normal in a couple of days.

 

Movement catches his eye, and he lowers his hand, peering out through the glass. His view of Medical is a little warped from the curve of the tank, but he can see enough to tell that Kirk's finally up and around, which means the _Columbia_ 's CMO must've decided he's not gonna go feral again, and thank God for that. Seeing his friend so consumed by his instincts that he was beyond _words_ was the scariest thing he's seen in his life, like the captain had been replaced by a wild beast. An incredibly intimidating predator, at that, something beautiful and terrifying all at once, like a tiger or a le-matya.

 

Kirk moves closer to the tank, and McCoy can see that he's molting feathers from his head like there's no tomorrow. It's almost a shame to see that golden mane go. It actually looked good on him. He is, however, apparently keeping the beard, since it's been neatened up enough to pass regulations instead of growing wild like he's been marooned on a deserted island for a month. Which they kind of were, to be fair.

 

Maybe McCoy's lucky. Fish don't exactly have body hair, so as the scales fall off, his body hair's being put back right how it was. Including his eyebrows, thank God.

 

The captain smiles at him through the glass, and hits the control to allow voice communication into the tank. " _Hey, Bones. How're you feeling?_ "

 

"Like I've been pickled and put in a damned freak show," McCoy grumbles, hating the way the water makes his voice sound all weird and gurgly when he speaks. "How the hell did you get out before me?"

 

" _Good behavior?_ " Kirk says with a shrug, and McCoy swears the captain does this just to make him roll his eyes. " _Seriously though, I'm not completely free to go yet either. But Doctor M'Benga says you're looking good, and you should be able to come out of the tank soon._ "

 

"Finally. It's a damn good thing I don't have claustrophobia." He has enough to worry about without freaking out over enclosed spaces, thank you very much. "You doing all right?"

 

Kirk's face keeps smiling, but that look in his eyes - back to blue, at least - says there's a storm brewing in that head of his. " _Better than I was, yeah._ "

 

McCoy leans against the glass, staring him down, trying to figure out which stupid thing has the captain's brain in a twist this time. "Talk to me, Jim."

 

Kirk sighs, not even trying to pretend he's not upset. " _One hundred and thirty-four dead._ "

 

"Well... shit." A full quarter of the ship's crew, and more dead than there were the last time he checked. McCoy can think of only a few short reasons why the casualty count went up that much, that quickly. Either way, it doesn't really matter, does it? Dead is dead.

 

" _Yeah._ " The captain runs a hand across his head, and a few feathers pull loose, drifting down to the deck. " _But everyone's coming home. Is it messed up that I'm just happy we've got bodies to bury this time?_ "

 

McCoy shakes his head immediately. "Not at all. It's damned lucky, that's what it is."

 

" _Not sure lucky is the word for it._ "

 

"I'm sure," McCoy insists, and God, he wishes he could touch Kirk right now so he could grab the bastard by his shoulders and shake him until this sinks in. "You did exactly what you had to do to keep as many alive as you could. Don't even try to play the 'what if' game, Jim, because you'll never stop. What happened, happened. Hell, we weren't even doing that badly, in the end. We made it long enough to be rescued and we didn't even have to eat each other."

 

For a moment, he wonders if he's gone too far, bringing that up, as Kirk stares at him in shock. But as the silence stretches on, Kirk relaxes ever so slightly. " _You're right,_ " he admits.

 

"Yeah, you should listen to me more often."

 

" _Don't let it go to your head,_ " Kirk mutters, but that weird tension between them seems to be pretty much gone. He's not okay - there's no miracle cure for emotional trauma, and there likely never will be - but that doesn't mean he's broken forever, either. Something changed in Kirk, down on Altamyd, more than just his more animalistic side coming out to play. Whatever the case, whatever the cause, McCoy can only hope and trust that it's a change for the better.

 

And if he gives that change a bit of a nudge, well, that's just his job as a doctor. "Back on the planet, you said you were tired of just surviving," McCoy says. "You ready to start _living_ now?"

 

Kirk looks up at him, and for once in his life, he truly looks his age. " _You know,_ " he says slowly, contemplatively, " _I think I am._ "


	59. Return

Docking with _Yorktown_ is a complete media circus. Reporters and journalists from all the major Federation publications are crowded into the observation decks to document _Columbia_ 's arrival in port, bearing the crew of the _Enterprise_ in her belly, both the survivors and those who did not live to see rescue. The news that Starfleet's most famous vessel, their flagship, has been destroyed is the top news story across the galaxy, and while no one seems to have all the details, wild speculation is rampant.

 

The _Franklin_ is the subject of a hell of a lot of that curiosity. It's not every day that a state-of-the-art vessel goes missing and part of her crew turns up on a relic long thought to be lost in deep space. The ancient ship now sits docked with _Yorktown_ , under guard and swarming with engineers analyzing every inch of her. The most that the media has been able to get is pictures, but they've certainly made the most of them, plastering images of the _Franklin_ all over subspace.

 

There's no doubt that they would love to get photos of the surviving crew of the _Enterprise_ , most of the mutants on the crew still in the process of shedding their excess mutations, so _Yorktown_ 's main hospital is also under heavy guard, no media allowed, the medical personnel within under orders not to discuss any details with the public.

 

_Thank goodness for transporters,_ Sulu thinks to himself, as his gurney is moved to the transporter room. His legs are still twisted and numb, unresponsive to his commands, phantom pain still throbbing in the roots that were severed at his knees and calves. And there's a similar ghostly feeling in the back of his head, where he's gotten so used to Altamyd listening to every thought, cut off from him the moment he was pulled free from the planet's rich soil. It's strange, to feel so alone in his own head again. But the green leaves that once grew from his head and shoulders have turned brown and fallen, and his rigid bark-like skin has softened every day, slowly bringing him closer to humanity. So he has faith that this, too, will pass, or he will adjust to the loss and learn to cope without it.

 

He reaches out and catches the sleeve of one of _Columbia_ 's nurses as they prepare to beam him over. "Does my family know?" he asks, and while a part of him is sick at the thought of Ben and Demora seeing him like this, he's never missed them more.

 

The nurse smiles at him and pats his hand. "They're waiting for you," the man says with a nod. Then he takes a step back, and Sulu's world dissolves into white, rematerializing in Yorktown Central Medical. A pair of orderlies immediately step forward, assessing his vitals and murmuring assurances to him as they take him to a private recovery ward, cordoned off specifically for the rehabilitation of the survivors of the _Enterprise_.

 

He's barely gotten settled into the hospital bed when the door opens, and there is Ben, eyes full of love and worry as he sees his husband for the first time in a month, Demora in his arms. The little girl's eyes go wide when she sees her daddy, his misshapen legs hidden under a blanket, though there's no hiding the bark covering his exposed face and arms. But none of this scares her, and she wriggles in Ben's arms, reaching out for Sulu. "Daddy!"

 

There's almost none of the hesitation or uncertainty she displayed on his previous visit, and she wraps her arms around him the moment Ben sets her down on Sulu's lap. "Papa said you were a tree." Her big brown eyes look up at him in concern, lower lip quivering. "They had to cut you down."

 

"They did," Sulu agrees, and with his free hand, he reaches out for Ben, who takes his hand and squeezes back, concern and relief etched into his husband's face.

 

"Didn't it hurt?" Demora asks innocently, and she reaches up with curious hands to touch her daddy's face, her eyes wide as she traces the lines in the bark, not quite as rough as a real tree, but certainly not soft as skin should be. Not yet.

 

"No, the doctors gave me a hypo that made it so it wouldn't hurt," Sulu explains, and if his explanation is lacking... well, he doesn't want to scare her. He doesn't even know how to begin to explain his condition to her, though judging by the look in Ben's eyes, at least his husband has been filled in. "But I am gonna be in the hospital for a while, before I get all better. So you and Papa can see me as much as you want while I'm here."

 

"You know," Ben says, giving him a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "when I said I wished we could see you more often, this isn't entirely what I had in mind."

 

"Me either. But honestly... I'm just glad I'm able to see you again," Sulu says, and gives Ben's hand a gentle tug, pulling him closer to greet him properly with a kiss. Their last kiss was routine and comfortable, a farewell between long-time partners who had no real reason to suspect they would not be seeing each other again the next week. Now, it's a desperate attempt to reassure them both that this is real, full of relief and joy that deep space did not create another widower today, that a little girl still has both her fathers to look after her.

 

Ben pulls back at last, and sits on the edge of the bed, not letting go of his husband's hand. "Once you're recovered, are you... going back out there?"

 

Sulu's been considering his answer to this question for a while. He didn't have much else to do, while he was rooted to the surface of Altamyd. So he doesn't have to think about what to say. "If I'm cleared for duty... yes." He gives Ben an apologetic look, and squeezes his hand again, trying to convey as much love and reassurance as he can. "Even after all this... I love my job. And I will always do everything in my power to come back to you."

 

For a moment, he wonders if Ben will object, if he'll point out that this time, Hikaru almost _didn't_ come back. That he might not even fully recover, that he may never walk again, or that the nerve damage will be too great for even modern medical science to completely heal.

 

But instead, his husband gives him a look so full of sad understanding and love, that it nearly brings him to tears. "Yeah, that's what I thought you'd say. We're going to hold you to that."

 

Sulu smiles slightly, holding his little girl in one arm, and his husband's hand in the other. "I'm counting on it."


	60. Choice

She opens her eyes to see bright white all around, and for a long moment, she assumes she must be a spirit. The last thing she remembers is falling into the dark, full of pain as a demon consumed her, body and soul.

 

But she blinks, and the brightness is not so bright. The white is a ceiling, the cleanest ceiling she has ever seen, and there is an incredible softness beneath her and draped across her body, unprotected by her scavenged clothes and straps. She turns her head to one side, the movement strangely exhausting, and sees she is in a small room that is so clean, she can not believe it. There are strange machines beeping quietly, and one matches the pulse of her heart, a steady rhythm not nearly as exciting as her music, but just as regular and predictable.

 

"Jaylah, are you awake?"

 

She turns her head the other way to see Montgomery Scotty sitting at her side, his face clean of the fur he had been growing since they have met. His clothes are different too, strangely colored and layered, without the symbol of the Starfleet on his chest.

 

"Montgomery Scotty," she says in surprise, and it startles her even more to hear how weak her voice is. But it is amazing that she is even alive, so as frustrating as it is, she can not complain. "What is this place?"

 

"Hospital on _Yorktown_ ," Montgomery Scotty tells her. "You need anything? I can get you some water, if ye like."

 

Now that he's mentioned water, she has never felt so thirsty in her life, and she licks her lips, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth is. "Yes. I thank you."

 

Montgomery Scotty stands, moving to a strange box in the wall, and when he turns back he is carrying a hand-sized cylinder with a small tube in it, which he holds to her mouth. "Figured you'd do better with a straw," he explains. "Drink slowly. You've been out for a bit."

 

She has never heard of such a thing, but grasps its use quickly, the cool water soothing her parched throat without risking her body's weakness embarrassing her by making it leak onto her. And when she has drunk her fill and he pulls the water cylinder away, she feels a little stronger, in her head if not in her body. "I remember Krall eating me. But I am not dead?"

 

"Nope," Montgomery Scotty says, almost cheerfully. "He did manage to wreak merry hell on you in the process, but we got you to real medical attention before you got too bad. I hope ye like to work out, because you'll be rebuilding muscle for a while yet. The good news is, you'll get to eat pretty much whatever you like for a while."

 

Whatever she wants? She can not even imagine other foods than unseasoned meat and plants, and she frowns at him uncertainly. "I do not know what I like."

 

Montgomery Scotty nods as though he expected this answer. "Aye, I figured as much. The synthesizers here have about fifty thousand options, with food from dozens of cultures throughout the Federation. We're bound to find something that suits your fancy."

 

Fifty thousand! Jaylah stares at him, aware that her mouth is open, but she can not help it. Who could even dream of such amounts of food? It is impossible for her to even picture so many things to eat. She has vague memories from long ago, of eating foods with so many different flavors, but the taste itself is lost to her after so many years without such things.

 

Montgomery Scotty seems to understand, though, and he gives her arm a light slap that does not hurt. "No worries, Jaylah. We'll take it slow. And if you don't like something, you don't have to finish it. Whatever you don't eat gets recycled - er, turned into different food," he adds, when she looks at him blankly.

 

What a strange place this is. Countless kinds of food, which can somehow become _other_ food? It is unthinkable. But she has seen many impossible things since the Starfleets came to Altamyd. The fact that she is here, away from the planet where she has spent most of her life, is proof enough of that.

 

"Are you hungry now?" he asks her, and it is a strange question to her. It has not been often that she has _not_ been hungry, and she feels now like she has during winters where she could not find enough to eat, and had to make herself eat only when she could not stand the pain, so she would not run out. Even then, she did not feel _this_ weak, and she knows of no other solution.

 

"Yes," she says, and she does not know what food to ask for. But this does not bother Montgomery Scotty, who smiles at her and leaves the room for a short time.

 

He returns with a flat thing covered in tiny clear holding containers, each one holding a small sample of something she has never seen before. "I brought you the sampler platter," he tells her proudly, and he holds up a narrow metal thing that he calls a spoon. "All soft things, of course, nurse-approved for someone in your condition."

 

Jaylah struggles to lift her arm enough to eat, but she refuses to let her body stop her from eating. She has survived this long. She will not let Krall defeat her now, even though her arm shakes and tires quickly. She just has to stop and rest between trying new things of this sampler platter.

 

She begins with the hot things, watching the steam rise from the tiny portions, and Montgomery Scotty names each food as she tries it. She does not like the feel of the mashed potatoes, but the cheekin soup is like nothing she has ever tasted, its flavors bursting on her tongue with a brightness she has never known, something that Montgomery Scotty calls salt. And she is astounded when he tells her that there are many other soups to choose from, the next time she wishes to eat.

 

Most of the other foods are sweet, and she cannot finish the crumbly thing called cake, her mouth shocked at how overwhelmingly sweet its topping is. Nor does she like the yo-gurt, with its strange hidden lumps inside. But the apple sauce is not too sweet, dusted with a flavoring called cinnamon, and she eats the entire thing.

 

It takes her a long time to try everything, but when she is done and Montgomery Scotty takes the spoon away, her belly is full in a way she does not remember, and she is tired but content. She blinks sleepily up at her Starfleet friend and she thinks she manages to smile. "I thank you, Montgomery Scotty."

 

He smiles back at her, and pats her arm. "You're quite welcome, lass. You get better soon, ye hear me?"

 

"I hear you," she murmurs, and closes her eyes, letting the healing sleep come.


	61. Command

Nyota Uhura has rarely thought of her inactive x-gene as a gift. She's had to work twice as hard to keep up with her mutant peers for her entire life, and while she's proud of her hard-won accomplishments, some part of her has always wondered how her life might be different if she was a mutant, how much more she might be able to achieve with that kind of power backing her up.

 

She'd never imagined that being a carrier would be an advantage.

 

But while the vast majority of the surviving _Enterprise_ crew is recovering in Yorktown Central Medical, she finds herself in the rare position of consulting directly with Starfleet Command, not as a proxy for the captain, but as the commander of the USS _Franklin_. It doesn't matter to them that she was only in command for a few days, or that she's in the communications division. Nor, she finds, does it really matter to her either. For a brief moment in time, that little ship was hers in every way that matters.

 

It's oddly disappointing to give it up, handing the ship over to Starfleet. It was only for a few weeks, but the _Franklin_ was a home when she had none, and she was Jaylah's home for far longer. That little ship saved their lives, and Uhura hopes that she ends up in a museum somewhere, educating future generations, instead of being torn apart for scrap. She deserves better than that.

 

For now, her home is on _Yorktown_ , in the temporary guest quarters which have been opened to those of the _Enterprise_ who don't reside at the hospital. It's unfamiliar and uncomfortable, though temporary, and she often spends her nights lying awake, wondering what comes next.

 

"You should rest," Spock tells her one night, his low voice cutting into the silence, too quiet without the rumble of engines to lull them to sleep.

 

"I know." Uhura turns over to face him, a shadow in the darkness, lit only by the dim starlight shining in through their small viewport. "I can't stop thinking."

 

"I am aware," Spock says, and he reaches out to gently trace the contours of her face. "What troubles you?"

 

She smiles a little, knowing that he could easily take that answer from her mind as gently as a kiss, yet he still asks. "Spock... you're first officer. You don't want to command a ship, but you've done it before when you had to."

 

He pauses, and even though she can't clearly see his face, she knows that eyebrow of his is rising towards his hairline. "That is correct. It is a matter of preference, not ability. I find my scientific duties to be more stimulating than those of commanding a vessel, though on occasion, a change in routine is a welcome challenge."

 

"I never really thought about command until the captain put me in charge of the _Franklin_ ," she admits. "I don't think I'd want to give up communications for it, but it was... interesting. Even appealing, in its own way."

 

Spock considers this, and gives voice to something she's been contemplating for a while. "It is rare for a carrier to be captain of a starship. Your time in that position was brief, but you have now joined their ranks." And then, because he knows her as well as he does, he adds, "You are uncertain if you should truly be counted among them."

 

"I've never reached for that kind of fame," Uhura agrees, and rests her head against his chest. "And I don't plan to take the captain's chair again anytime soon, nor was I actually promoted to the position."

 

"Neither was Captain Kirk, before he was officially designated captain of the _Enterprise_ ," Spock points out. "Nor I, before him. And Captain Vel-George Kirk's command lasted a mere twelve minutes after a similar battlefield promotion, during which he accomplished a great deal. As did you. Do not diminish your accomplishments. Your leadership is responsible for the rescue of two hundred ninety-seven people. It is understandable to be uncomfortable with the recognition, but do not allow yourself to believe you do not deserve it."

 

She smiles against his chest, and her fingers seek out his in a gentle Vulcan kiss. "Is self-doubt illogical?"

 

"Not in all circumstances. However, in this scenario, to deny the facts is pointless behavior." Coming from anyone else, she might take that as an insult. But to Spock, there is no malice in that blunt statement, only truth.

 

And he really does have a point. Kirk was a mere lieutenant when he first took command of the _Enterprise_ , the same rank that she herself still holds. But despite his inexperience with command, no one believes he was anything less than the captain while he sat in that center seat. He stepped up to the challenge required of him, because no one else could.

 

Like she did.

 

Spock must be peeking into her thoughts now, or else he's doing a very good job of guessing where her mind has led. "By the time we receive our next official assignment from Starfleet, your rank will be that of a lieutenant commander."

 

She pulls away slightly to look up at him in surprise, searching out the faint reflections of starlight in his eyes, the only way to truly see him in the dark. "I will?"

 

"The captain intends to promote all personnel," Spock admits, as though he's sharing a secret that was not meant to be given voice just yet. And maybe it is. "To honor the dead for their sacrifice, and to honor the living for their loyalty and ability."

 

It actually does not surprise her, upon further reflection. Where a more traditional captain would single out those who performed above and beyond their duties, Kirk refuses to play favorites, holding all his crew as valuable and worthy of his respect and attention, leaving no one left out in the cold. Of course, she's not sure if Starfleet will _let_ him, but he's made a career out of pushing the boundaries of what Starfleet will allow.

 

She frowns slightly as a thought occurs to her. "But Spock... that means you'll be a captain."

 

"I am not obligated to accept promotion. I do not desire a change in duty or assignment. But it may interest you to know that captaincy does not necessarily require command of a starship. Perhaps tomorrow, you would join me in familiarizing myself with the relevant regulations, so that I may make a fully informed decision."

 

Uhura smiles, and settles herself against him, body and mind both. "I'd love to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During Star Trek V and VI, the Enterprise had three captains onboard: Kirk, Spock, and Scotty. No one seems to have a problem with this, and Scotty was actually promoted to captain of engineering at the same time he was assigned to serve on the Excelsior under another captain (in III), so it stands to reason that Starfleet regulations allow multiple officers on a ship to hold the rank, and that the captain tasked with command of the ship still outranks them in authority if not in actual rank.


	62. Admiral

Ten days after the _Columbia_ returns to _Yorktown_ with the survivors of the late USS _Enterprise_ , another starship glides into port. The USS _Yamato_ arrives unannounced, bearing the highest level of security clearance in Starfleet, as well as the service's highest ranking officer.

 

Admiral Christopher Pike, head of Starfleet Command, leans only lightly on his cane as he enters one of _Yorktown_ 's small conference rooms, and he suppresses a smile at the spike of pleased surprise that comes when the room's occupants take notice of his arrival.

 

"Admiral!"

 

Pike has not seen Captain Kirk in person since the day the _Enterprise_ left Earth on her five year mission. There has been video contact, of course, but flat images are nothing compared to the depth of feeling that an empath gets from direct interaction, and he's missed that particular brand of youthful enthusiasm that young Kirk has always exhibited.

 

But there's something very different to him, now. A sort of darker maturity, the weight of command on his shoulders, and most oddly, a sense of long-awaited peace that drowns out the turmoil that had always been just beneath the surface, still there, but muted to the point where it's not really relevant. This isn't the young firebrand that he recruited in that bar in Iowa, all those years ago, struggling against himself and his inner demons, whatever they were. This is a man who has recently taken a good, hard look at himself and decided to truly do better.

 

"Captain," Pike greets him, looking him over. Like most of his crew, Kirk is a little leaner than Pike remembers, his uniform slightly loose on his frame. But he certainly doesn't look weaker, and the beard that shrouds his jaw makes him look ten years older. The youngest captain in the fleet has grown into the role better than Pike could have ever hoped for. "I'm sorry to hear about the _Enterprise_."

 

"I am too, sir," Kirk answers quietly, emanating sadness and a settling grief that's had time to properly sink in. The loss of his ship and a quarter of his crew cuts deep, but the captain isn't letting it cripple him, focusing on those that remain instead.

 

On the other side of the conference table, Commodore Paris regards the head of Starfleet coolly, her own emotions reined in enough to make a Vulcan proud, like most other empaths. "Admiral, welcome to _Yorktown_ ," she says with a nod. "I regret that this unfortunate incident has pulled you away from your duties."

 

"This _is_ my duty," Pike says simply, and Kirk's appreciation of that statement doesn't hold even a hint of smugness, not like it would have years ago. "Captain, Commodore... I'm here to discuss the future. Kirk, I understand you applied for the position of vice admiral at this post, before the _Enterprise_ was destroyed."

 

"Yes, sir," Kirk answers, and Pike is somewhat surprised to detect no indecision in his reply.

 

So is Commodore Paris. "The job is yours, if you still want it," she tells him. "No one is more qualified or more deserving of a rest."

 

But Kirk shakes his head, smiling slightly, like he's inwardly laughing at some private joke, though he's not projecting any real amusement. "With respect, ma'am, I've had all the rest I care for." He lifts his chin and faces Pike. "Sir, I signed up to spend five years exploring deep space. By my count, we've only done three years. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to at least finish what we started."

 

He can't say he wasn't expecting that, but it does his heart good to hear it anyway. A captain who was ready to jump ship _before_ it was shot down would not be blamed for feeling like that black depression was justified, but Kirk has never exactly been one for reacting as you'd expect. It takes a special breed of officer to take an epic beating like that, then pop right back up and ask for more.

 

It's the same thing he saw in Kirk all those years ago, getting the snot kicked out of him in that dive bar in Iowa. Except now Kirk isn't fighting to self-destruct, to prove to himself how much he can take without breaking, to punish himself for whatever sins he felt he committed in the past. He's fighting for something much more important than that. Duty, honor, love for his people... and at his very core, that spark of wonder in the unknown, still burning despite the heavy losses he sustained in the process of discovering that new life.

 

"You're sure that's what you want?" Pike asks, because as confident as Kirk is, he needs to be sure. Needs to know that this isn't some temporary change of heart, or aftereffects of the advanced mutation he suffered on Altamyd.

 

But Kirk looks at him with clear blue eyes, determination written in the set of his shoulders, and Pike can sense nothing but certainty from him. "Absolutely."

 

Pike is silent, watching Kirk for any hint that he's having second thoughts, or any nervousness at the lack of response. The captain does nothing but wait patiently, determined to take the center seat on whatever starship he's assigned to next. "Yorktown Central Medical tells me that your crewmen who were injured will require at least six months to recuperate," Pike says at last. "It'll be eight months before the USS _Indomitable_ is ready for shakedown. You spend that time filling your ranks and get your crew back into fighting shape, and she's yours."

 

As expected, there's still a pang of grief and guilt in Kirk, like he thinks he's betraying the _Enterprise_ by replacing her with another ship. But stronger than that is that siren song of command, calling him back to the job for which he has demonstrated such unswerving ability. "Understood, sir."

 

Pike expected Commodore Paris to be disappointed that she will not have the famous James T. Kirk in command of her starbase, but she simply smiles and says, "It is not often that one congratulates an officer for _not_ being promoted, but in this case I believe it is warranted."

 

"Thank you, commodore." Pike doesn't understand the amusement rolling off of Kirk, not until the captain turns to him. "Speaking of promotions, sir, there's something I'd like to talk to you about."

 

The admiral eyes him, and no matter how much Kirk has matured since he took the captain's chair, it's oddly reassuring to feel that glimmer of mischief just below the professionalism he's projecting. At the core, he's still the same old Jim Kirk, just tempered with age and experience. "How many regulations is this going to break?"

 

"None, I hope."

 

 _He_ hopes _. God help me._ "All right, Kirk, let's hear it."


	63. Indomitable

For as long as Kirk can remember, there has always been a starship being worked on in Riverside Shipyards, either under construction or undergoing repairs that can't be done in orbit. He grew up watching ship after ship grow from nothing and take off for deep space, always replaced by another within weeks. Nearly nine years ago, he saw the shell of the USS _Enterprise_ take shape under the dedicated construction crews of the Starfleet Corps of Engineers. Four and a half years ago, the same _Enterprise_ returned to her place of birth, battle-tested and scarred, and he saw her slowly rebuilt, rising from her own ashes.

 

It's almost like seeing a ghost, an echo of the past, as his shuttle passes the drydock on the way to the landing pad. The USS _Indomitable_ sits amongst the scaffolding like a roosting eagle, her sweeping nacelles spread like wings over her body. She's not identical to the _Enterprise_ , of course. She's a new take on the design, resplendent in silver and blue, the first of the new _Victory_ -class heavy cruisers. But the same basic shape is there, the sweeping lines of the _Constitution_ -class carried over onto her frame, appearing oddly naked without her name and designation painted across her saucer yet. Tiny figures swarm across her upper hull, laying down lines of black, and the letters USS start to take shape.

 

His shuttle sets down, and Kirk steps out into the sunlight, looking up at the ship. She looks bigger from the ground, towering well above him, and his heart aches as his gaze travels from stem to stern. She'll never truly replace the _Enterprise_ , but she is a gorgeous ship, and in time, he's sure she'll eventually feel like home. That has far less to do with the ship herself, as much as it does the personnel.

 

Not all the survivors of the _Enterprise_ have chosen to return. A dozen or so requested to be transferred to planetary postings, either for personal reasons or because their psych evaluations could not certify them fit for serving aboard a starship. Kirk is sorry to see them go, but granted every request, wishing them well in their future assignments and fully intending to keep tabs on their careers. No matter whether they're on his ship or not, every member of his crew is part of the family.

 

"There ye are, sir!" Scott's voice shakes the captain from his musings, and Kirk turns to see his chief engineer juggling half a dozen padds. "Here for the tour, right?"

 

Kirk smiles and claps him on the shoulder. "I sure am. How's she doing?"

 

"Nearly ready to go, sir. Give me five more days and she'll be singing all the way past Jupiter." As they talk, Scott leads him up the catwalk to the nearest airlock. Where once he would have impatiently taken an aerial shortcut up to the access point, Kirk simply gives his wings a shake to settle them against his back, and keeps pace with Scott. "It's honestly all over bar the shouting, but for some reason, Starfleet isn't a fan of skipping safety inspections. Go figure, eh?"

 

Inside, the ship is shiny and new, and still smells of fresh paint and manufacturing chemicals. Her corridors are so similar to the late _Enterprise_ , subtle differences causing him to do double-takes every so often. Engineering is clean and bright, clear of the sort of gunk and grime that builds up over years of use, and Scott drops his armful of padds on the first console he comes across. "Enjoy it while it lasts, cap'n," Scott says, noticing Kirk's appreciative look at the department's cleanliness. "Ye won't be seeing it this spotless again."

 

"She just needs a little breaking in, that's all," Kirk says with a small smile. "A ship like this will always serve better when she's well-loved. Speaking of, I hear Jaylah's starting classes next week."

 

"Aye, she messaged me too," Scott agrees with a fond grin. "The Academy's not gonna know what hit it. You know, round about when we get back after this trip, she'll be a midshipman."

 

"Yeah, I've thought about that too," Kirk agrees as they make their way to the upper decks, using the access ladders. The turbolifts are working, but there's something to be said about walking the entire length of the ship, familiarizing yourself by sight and step, rather than zipping across the ship in a box. "Any ship will be lucky to have her. But I'm really hoping she picks us."

 

"Me too, sir."

 

The layout of the ship is just familiar enough that although he takes a wrong turn or two, Kirk still manages to find his way to Sickbay. McCoy and Chapel are both there, double-checking the medical inventory, and the doctor looks up at the sound of visitors. "Bones," Kirk greets him with a smile. "How's Sickbay?"

 

"Terrible," McCoy grumbles. "I had things just the way I liked it, and now I can't find a damn thing. We're gonna have to reorganize everything."

 

_Same old Bones. Well, if he's complaining, at least I know he's happy._ "Come on, you can do that later. Come check out the bridge with me."

 

McCoy looks like he's considering rejecting the offer, but one look at the captain's face and he thinks better of it. "Fine. Might as well. Someone's gotta keep you out of trouble."

 

Kirk glances over at Scott, who just shrugs. "Not gonna be me, sir. No offense."

 

They pass officer's quarters on the way up, but Kirk doesn't stop in just yet. Without his personal items to fill in the empty spaces, his quarters are bound to be sterile and unwelcoming, and he'd rather wait until he has half a dozen crates of clothes and his entire collection of books stacked up on the floor. He does, however, smile faintly at the nameplate next to the door. _Captain James T. Kirk._ Even after all this time, the rank still sits well on his shoulders.

 

He's somewhat surprised to emerge onto the bridge and see it almost completely manned, and Chekov's delight washes over him at the same moment he hears the familiar, "Keptin on ze bridge!"

 

Sulu swivels his chair at the helm, nearly knocking over his cane from where it rests against the console. "Captain! It's great to see you, sir."

 

"You too," Kirk greets him. Even after nearly eight months, the nerve damage to Sulu's legs is still prevalent enough that he needs help getting around, and there's a good chance he'll never make it back to a hundred percent. So it's a damn good thing that no one's ever needed legs to fly a starship. It wouldn't feel right to head out into deep space without the best damn helmsman in the fleet at the wheel. "How do we look?"

 

"Everything checks out," Sulu answers, and as Kirk looks down at his station, he sees the same battered photo of little Demora already tucked into the seam of the console. It's slightly burnt around the edges, but her smile is still as bright as ever, carried with her father wherever he goes. "I can't wait to run her through her paces."

 

"We are scheduled for a shakedown cruise around the Sol system in seven point three days," Spock adds, standing next to Uhura as she runs comm checks. "Followed by warp drive trial runs between Earth and New Vulcan. I expect we will exceed the _Enterprise_ 's benchmarks quite easily."

 

"Bigger and faster," Kirk muses out loud, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "It's like they _know_ me."

 

The captain's chair sits empty and waiting, its back low-slung to accommodate Kirk's wings, as his previous chair did. But he doesn't sit down, instead walking to the front of the bridge, to look out the clear viewport. It's odd to see blue sky instead of star-studded velvet black, and the silver hull stretches out endlessly at his feet, like an artificial horizon.

 

Something catches his eye, and he tilts his head, unsure for a moment if what he's seeing is real. "...huh."

 

"Jim?" McCoy asks, over his shoulder.

 

Kirk turns to face his crew, a questioning look on his face. "Did you know about this?" he asks, and he can tell by the blank looks on their faces that they don't have a clue what he's talking about.

 

"Captain?" Uhura says, stepping up to stand next to him. He nods towards the view outside, and she follows his gaze, inhaling sharply in surprise when she sees it. Behind them, the others join them, Chekov lending Sulu a steadying elbow on the way.

 

The ship's official markings are complete. And though they're upside-down from this perspective, Kirk would know them anywhere. He saw them every day for five years.

 

USS _Enterprise. NCC-1701-A._

 

Kirk smiles through teary eyes, and he opens his wings to their fullest, sweeping his entire family in their feathery embrace as the seven of them stand together, united. "My friends... we've come home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD it's finally done. *flails* My original outline for this story was only twenty-six chapters. I have no idea how it ballooned into this absolute monster but I am so glad it did. It was a blast. I'm probably going to take a break from this 'verse for a while, but there may be more in the future, so stay tuned!
> 
> For those curious what kind of beard Kirk has, it is absolutely [this one](http://imgur.com/e7j8tFX).
> 
> I'd like to give special thanks to my friend Damos and my brother Nick, who helped me brainstorm what turned out to be Character Development: The Movie, and helped me answer the most important question of the rewrite, "What _does_ a planet need with a starship?"
> 
> And of course, as always, my thanks to everyone who read and/or reviewed/left kudos! Your enthusiasm gives me life. :)


End file.
